; 


POEMS 


CURREE,  ELLIS,  AND  ACTON 
BELL. 


authors   of 
"jane  eyre,"  "wuthering  heights/'  "tenant 

OF   WILDFELL   HALL/^   ETC. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
LEA   AND    BLANCHARD. 

1848. 


CONTENTS. 


Pilate's  Wife's  Dream       .           ..            .  Page  n 

Faith  and  Despondency           .            .             .  20 

A  Reminiscence     .            .            .            .  .22 

Mementos         ,            ,            ,            .            .  23 

Stars 33 

The  Philosopher           ,            ,            .            .  36 

The  Arbour            .            .            .            ,  .        38 

Home    ..,.•«  39 

The  Wife's  WiU     .            ,            ,       ■     ,  .        40 

Remembrance               ,            .         '  >,^^    .,   .  43 

Vanitas  Vanitatum,  Omnia  Vanitas           ,  -  .        45 

The  Wood        «...            ,  47 

A  Death-Scene       .            .            .           ^  ].  ^        52 
Song      .            ,            ,            ,            ,            .55 

The  Penitent          .            ,            .        .1.  ..  •         56 

Music  on  Christmas  Morning               ,            .  57 

Frances      ,            ,            ,            .          ,.     I  ,,         58 
Anticipation 
Stanzas 


68 
71 

72 


Gilbert  . 

The  Prisoner 

If  this  be  all      , 

Life 

Hope     . 

Memory     , 

The  Letter 

A  Day-Dream        .  .  .  ,  «       101 

384523 


92 
93 
94 
95 
98 


IV                                            CONTENTS. 

To  Cowper       .... 
Regret        .            .            .            .            . 
To  Imagination             .            .            • 
The  Doubter's  Prayer        .            .            . 
Presentiment    .            .            . 

.  Page  104 

.       106 

108 

109 

112 

How  clear  she  shines 

.       115 

A  Word  to  the  Elect     . 

116 

The  Teacher's  Monologue 
Sympathy          .... 
Past  Days  ..... 
Passion              .... 

.       119 
122 

.       123 
124 

Preference              .... 

.       127 

Plead  for  Me     .... 

130 

The  Consolation     .... 

.       132 

Evening  Solace 

Self-Interrogation   .... 
Lines  composed  in  a  Wood  on  a  Windy  D 
Stanzas       ..... 

133 

.       135 

ay             137 

.       138 

Death    ..... 

140 

Views  of  Life         .... 

.       141 

Parting              .... 

149 

Appeal              .... 
Honour's  Martyr    .            .            .            . 
The  Student's  Serenade 

•            XOKf 

152 

.       152 

155 

Apostasy    ..... 
Stanzas              .... 

.       157 
160 

The  Captive  Dove 

.       161 

Winter  Stores   .... 

162 

My  Comforter        .... 

.       165 

Self-Congratulation 

The  Missionary      .            .            . 

The  Old  Stoic    .            .            . 

166 

.       169 

174 

Fluctuations           .           .           . 

.       175 

POEMS- 


PILATE'S  WIFE'S  DREAM. 

I've  quenched  my  lamp,  I  struck  it  in  that  start 
Which  every  limb  convulsed,  I  heard  it  fall — 
The  crash  blent  with  my  sleep,  I  saw  depart 
Its  light,  even  as  I  woke,  on  yonder  wall ; 
Over  against  my  bed,  there  shone  a  gleam 
Strange,  faint,  and  mingling  also  with  my  dream. 

It  sunk,  and  I  am  wrapt  in  utter  gloom ; 
How  far  is  night  advanced,  and  when  will  day 
Retinge  the  dusk  and  livid  air  with  bloom. 
And  fill  this  void  with  warm,  creative  ray  ? 
Would  I  could  sleep  again  till,  clear  and  red, 
Morning  shall  on  the  mountain-tops  be  spread  ! 

I'd  call  my  women,  but  to  break  their  sleep, 
Because  my  own  is  broken,  were  unjust ; 

2 


14     '    ''  '    Pilate's  wife's  dream. 

They've  wrought  all  day,  and  well-earned  slumbers 

steep 
Their  labours  in  forgetfulness,  I  trust ; 
Let  me  my  feverish  watch  with  patience  bear, 
Thankful  that  none  with  me  its  sufferings  share. 

Yet,  Oh,  for  light !  one  ray  would  tranquillize 
My  nerves,  my  pulses,  more  than  effort  can ; 
I'll  draw  my  curtain  and  consult  the  skies  : 
These  trembling  stars  at  dead  of  night  look  wan, 
Wild,  restless,  strange,  yet  cannot  be  more  drear 
Than  this  my  couch,  shared  by  a  nameless  fear. 

All  black — one  great  cloud,  drawn  from  east  to  west, 

Conceals  the  heavens,  but  there  are  lights  below ; 

Torches  burn  in  Jerusalem,  and  cast 

On  yonder  stony  mount  a  lurid  glow. 

I  see  men  stationed  there,  and  gleaming  spears  ; 

A  sound,  too,  from  afar,  invades  my  ears. 

Dull,  measured  strokes  of  axe  and  hammer  ring 
From  street  to  street,  not  loud,  but   through  the 

night 
Distinctly  heard — and  some  strange  spectral  thing 
Is  now  upreared — and,  fixed  against  the  light 
Of  the  pale  lamps  ;  defined  upon  that  sky. 
It  stands  up  like  a  column,  straight  and  high. 

I  see  it  all — ^I  know  the  dusky  sign — 
A  cross  on  Calvary,  which  Jews  uprear 


Pilate's  wife's  dream.  15 

While  Romans  watch ;  and  when  the  dawn  shall 

shine 
Pilate,  to  judge  the  victim  will  appear, 
Pass  sentence — yield  him  up  to  crucify ; 
And  on  that  cross  the  spotless  Christ  must  die* 

Dreams,  then,  are  true — for  thus  my  vision  ran ; 

Surely  some  oracle  has  been  with  me. 

The  gods  have  chosen  me  to  reveal  their  plan, 

To  warn  an  unjust  judge  of  destiny  ; 

I,  slumbering,  heard  and  saw ;  awake  I  know, 

Christ's  coming  death,  and  Pilate's  life  of  woe. 

I  do  not  weep  for  Pilate — ^who  could  prove 
Regret  for  him  whose  cold  and  crushing  sway 
No  prayer  can  soften,  no  appeal  can  move ; 
Who  tramples  hearts  as  others  trample  clay, 
Yet  with  a  faltering,  an  uncertain  tread. 
That  might  stir  up  reprisal  in  the  dead. 

Forced  to  sit  by  his  side  and  see  his  deeds ; 
Forced  to  behold  that  visage,  hour  by  hour, 
In  whose  gaunt  lines,  the  abhorrent  gazer  reads 
A  triple  lust  of  gold,  and  blood,  and  power ; 
A  soul  whom  motives,  fierce,  yet  abject,  urge 
Rome's  servile  slave,  and  Judah's  tyrant  scourge. 

How  can  I  love,  or  mourn,  or  pity  him  ? 

I,  who  so  long  my  fettered  hands  have  wrung ; 


16  Pilate's  wife's  dream. 

I,  who  for  grief  have  wept  my  eye-sight  dim ; 
Because,  while  Hfe  for  me  was  bright  and  young, 
He  robbed  my  youth— he  quenched  my  life's  fair 

ray- 
He  crushed  my  mind,  and  did  my  freedom  slay. 

And  at  this  hour — although  I  be  his  wife — 
He  has  no  more  of  tenderness  from  me 
Than  any  other  wretch  of  guilty  life  ; 
Less,  for  I  know  his  household  privacy — 
I  see  him  as  he  is — without  a  screen ; 
And,  by  the  gods,  my  soul  abhors  his  mien ! 

Has  he  not  sought  my  presence,  dyed  in  blood — 
Innocent,  righteous  blood,  shed  shamelessly  ? 
And  have  I  not  his  red  salute  withstood  ? 
Aye, — ^when,  as  erst,  he  plunged  all  Galilee 
In  dark  bereavement — in  affliction  sore. 
Mingling  their  very  offerings  with  their  gore. 

Then  came  he — ^in  his  eyes  a  serpent-smile. 

Upon  his  lips  some  false,  endearing  word. 

And,  through  the  streets  of  Salem,  clanged  the 

while. 
His  slaughtering,  hacking,  sacrilegious  sword — 
And  I,  to  see  a  man  cause  men  such  woe. 
Trembled  with  ire — I  did  not  fear  to  show. 

And  now,  the  envious  Jewish  priests  have  brought 
Jesus — whom  they  in  mockery  call  their  king — 


Pilate's  wife's  dream.  17 

To  have,  by  this   grim   power,  their  vengeance 

wrought ; 
By  this  mean  reptile,  innocence  to  sting. 
Oh  !  could  I  but  the  purposed  doom  avert, 
And  shield  the  blameless  head  from  cruel  hurt ! 

Accessible  is  Pilate's  heart  to  fear. 

Omens  will  shake  his  soul,  like  autumn  leaf; 

Could  he  this  night's  appalling  vision  hear. 

This  just  man's  bonds  were  loosed,  his  life  were  safe, 

Unless  that  bitter  priesthood  should  prevail. 

And  make  even  terror  to  their  malice  quail. 

Yet  if  I  tell  the  dream— but  let  me  pause. 
What  dream  ?     Erewhile  the  characters  were  clear. 
Graved  on  my  brain — at  once  some  unknown  cause 
Has  dimmed  and  razed  the  thoughts,  which  now 

appear 
Like  a  vague  remnant  of  some  by-past  scene  ; — 
Not  what  will  be,  but  what,  long  since,  has  been. 

I  suffered  many  things,  I  heard  foretold 

A  dreadful  doom  for  Pilate, — lingering  woes. 

In  far,  barbarian  climes,  where  mountains  cold 

Built  up  a  solitude  of  trackless  snows. 

There,  he  and  grisly  wolves  prowled  side  by  side. 

There  he  lived  famished — there  methought  he  died  ; 

But  not  of  hunger,  nor  by  malady  ; 

I  saw  the  snow  around  him,  stained  with  gore  ; 


18  Pilate's  wife's  dream. 

I  said  I  had  no  tears  for  such  as  he, 

And,  lo  !  my  cheek  is  wet — mine  eyes  run  o'er ; 

I  weep  for  mortal  suffering,  mortal  guilt, 

I  weep  the  impious  deed — ^the  blood  self-spilt. 

More  I  recall  not,  yet  the  vision  spread 

Into  a  world  remote,  an  age  to  come — 

And  still  the  illumined  name  of  Jesus  shed 

A  light,  a  clearness,  through  the  unfolding  gloom- 

And  still  I  saw  that  sign,  which  now  I  see, 

That  cross  on  yonder  brow  of  Calvary. 

What  is  this  Hebrew  Christ  ?     To  me  unknown. 
His  lineage — doctrine — mission — yet  how  clear. 
Is  God-like  goodness,  in  his  actions  shown ! 
How  straight  and  stainless  is  his  life's  career ! 
The  ray  of  Deity  that  rests  on  him. 
In  my  eyes  makes  Olympian  glory  dim. 

The  world  advances,  Greek  or  Roman  rite 
Suffices  not  the  inquiring  mind  to  stay ; 
The  searching  soul  demands  a  purer  light 
To  guide  it  on  its  upward,  onward  way  ; 
Ashamed  of  sculptured  gods — ^Religion  turns 
To  where  the  unseen  Jehovah's  altar  burns. 

Our  faith  is  rotten — all  our  rites  defiled. 
Our  temples  sullied,  and  methinks,  this  man, 
With  his  new  ordinance,  so  wise  and  mild. 
Is  come,  even  as  he  says,  the  chaff  to  fan 


Pilate's  wife's  dream.  19 

And  sever  from  the  wheat ;  but  will  his  faith 
Survive  the  terrors  of  to-morrow's  death  ? 


I  feel  a  firmer  trust — a  higher  hope 
Rise  in  my  soul — it  dawns  with  dawning  day ; 
Lo !  on  the  Temple's  roof — on  Moriah's  slope 
Appears  at  length  that  clear,  and  crimson  ray, 
Which  I  so  wished  for  when  shut  in  by  night ; 
Oh,  opening  skies,  I  hail,  I  bless  your  hght ! 

Part,  clouds  and  shadows  !  glorious  Sun,  appear ! 
Part,  mental  gloom  !     Come  insight  from  on  high  ! 
Dusk  dawn  in  heaven  still  strives  with  daylight 

clear, 
The  longing  soul,  doth  still  uncertain  sigh. 
Oh !  to  behold  the  truth — that  sun  divine. 
How  doth  my  bosom  pant,  my  spirit  pine  ! 

This  day,  time  travails  with  a  mighty  birth, 

This  day.  Truth  stoops  from  heaven  and  visits  earth, 

Ere  night  descends,  I  shall  more  surely  know 

What  guide  to  follow,  in  what  path  to  go ; 

I  wait  in  hope — I  wait  in  solemn  fear, 

The  oracle  of  God — ^the  sole — true  God — to  hear. 

CURRER. 


20 


FAITH  AND  DESPONDENCY. 

"  The  winter  wind  is  loud  and  wild, 
Come  close  to  me,  my  darling  child  ; 
Forsake  thy  books,  and  mateless  play ; 
And,  while  the  night  is  gathering  grey, 
We'll  talk  its  pensive  hours  away  ; — 

"  lerne,  round  our  sheltered  hall 
November's  gusts  unheeded  call ; 
Not  one  faint  breath  can  enter  here 
Enough  to  wave  my  daughter's  hair. 
And  I  am  glad  to  watch  the  blaze 
Glance  from  her  eyes,  with  mimic  rays ; 
To  feel  her  cheek,  so  softly  pressed, 
In  happy  quiet  on  my  breast. 

"  But,  yet,  even  this  tranquillity 
Brings  bitter,  restless  thoughts  to  me ; 
And,  in  the  red  fire's  cheerful  glow, 
I  think  of  deep  glens,  blocked  with  snow ; 
I  dream  of  moor,  and  misty  hill. 
Where  evening  closes  dark  and  chill ; 
For,  lone,  among  the  mountains  cold. 
Lie  those  that  I  have  loved  of  old. 
And  my  heart  aches,  in  hopeless  pain. 
Exhausted  with  repinings  vain. 
That  I  shall  greet  them  ne'er  again !" 


FAITH   AND   DESPONDENCY.  21 

"  Father,  in  early  infancy, 
When  you  were  far  beyond  the  sea, 
Such  thoughts  were  tyrants  over  me  ! 
I  often  sat,  for  hours  together. 
Through  the  long  nights  of  angry  weather. 
Raised  on  my  pillow,  to  descry 
The  dim  moon  strugghng  in  the  sky  ; 
Or,  with  strained  ear,  to  catch  the  shock, 
Of  rock  with  wave,  and  wave  with  rock  ; 
So  would  I  fearful  vigil  keep. 
And,  all  for  listening,  never  sleep. 
But  this  world's  Hfe  has  much  to  dread, 
Not  so,  my  Father,  with  the  dead. 

"  Oh  !  not  for  them,  should  we  despair. 
The  grave  is  drear,  but  they  are  not  there ; 
Their  dust  is  mingled  with  the  sod. 
Their  happy  souls  are  gone  to  God ! 
You  told  me  this,  and  yet  you  sigh, 
And  murmur  that  your  friends  must  die. 
Ah  !  my  dear  father,  tell  me  why  ? 
For,  if  your  former  words  were  true. 
How  useless  would  such  sorrow  be  ; 
As  wise,  to  mourn  the  seed  which  grew 
Unnoticed  on  its  parent  tree, 
Because  it  fell  in  fertile  earth, 
And  sprang  up  to  a  glorious  birth — 
Struck  deep  its  root,  and  lifted  high 
Its  green  boughs,  in  the  breezy  sky. 


22  A   REMINISCENCE. 

"  But,  I'll  not  fear,  I  will  not  weep 
For  those  whose  bodies  rest  in  sleep, — 
I  know  there  is  a  blessed  shore, 

Opening  its  ports  for  me,  and  mine  ; 
And,  gazing  Time's  wide  waters  o'er, 

I  weary  for  that  land  divine. 
Where  we  were  born,  where  you  and  I 
Shall  meet  our  Dearest,  when  we  die  ; 
From  suffering  and  corruption  free, 
Restored  into  the  Deity." 

"  Well  hast  thou  spoken,  sweet,  trustful  child  ! 

And  wiser  than  thy  sire  ; 
And  worldly  tempests,  raging  wild. 

Shall  strengthen  thy  desire — 
Thy  fervent  hope,  through  storm  and  foam, 

Through  wind  and  ocean's  roar. 
To  reach,  at  last,  the  eternal  home, 

The  steadfast,  changeless  shore !" 

Ellis. 


A  REMINISCENCE. 

^)  Yes,  thou  art  gone  !  and  never  more 
Thy  sunny  smile  shall  gladden  me  ; 
But  I  may  pass  the  old  church  door. 
And  pace  the  floor  that  covers  thee, 


MEMENTOS.  ?3 

May  stand  upon  the  cold,  damp  stone, 
And  think  that,  frozen,  lies  below 
The  lightest  heart  that  I  have  known, 
The  kindest  I  shall  ever  know. 

Yet,  though  I  cannot  see  thee  more, 
'Tis  still  a  comfort  to  have  seen ; 
And  though  thy  transient  life  is  o'er, 
^    'Tis  sweet  to  think  that  thou  hast  been ; 

(  To  think  a  soul  so  near  divine, 

(    Within  a  form,  so  angel  fair. 
United  to  a  heart  like  thine. 
Has  gladdened  once  our  humble  sphere. 

^^  Acton. 


MEMENTOS. 

Arranging  long-locked  drawers  and  shelves 

Of  cabinets,  shut  up  for  years. 

What  a  strange  task  we've  set  ourselves ! 

How  still  the  lonely  room  appears  ! 

How  strange  this  mass  of  ancient  treasures, 

Mementos  of  past  pains  and  pleasures  ; 


24  MEMENTOS. 

These  volumes,  clasped  with  costly  stone, 
With  print  all  faded,  gilding  gone  ; 
These  fans  of  leaves,  from  Indian  trees — 
These  crimson  shells,  from  Indian  seas — 

.  These  tiny  portraits,  set  in  rings — 
Once,  doubtless,  deemed  such  precious  things  ; 

•^v  Keepsakes  bestowed  by  Love  on  Faith, 
And  worn  till  the  receiver's  death, -i^ 
Now  stored  with  cameos,  china,  shells. 
In  this  old  closet's  dusty  cells. 

I  scarcely  think,  for  ten  long  years, 
A  hand  has  touched  these  relics  old ; 
And,  coating  each,  slow-formed,  appears, 
The  growth  of  green  and  antique  mould. 

All  in  this  house  is  mossing  over ; 

All  is  unused,  and  dim,  and  damp ; 

Nor  light,  nor  warmth,  the  rooms  discover — 

Bereft  for  years  of  fire  and  lamp. 

The  sun,  sometimes  in  summer,  enters 
The  casements,  with  reviving  ray  ; 
But  the  long  rains  of  many  winters 
Moulder  the  very  walls  away. 

And  outside  all  is  ivy,  clinging 
To  chimney,  lattice,  gable  grey ; 
Scarcely  one  Httle  red  rose  springing 
Through  the  green  moss  can  force  its  way. 


MEMENTOS. 

Unscared,  the  daw,  and  starling  nestle, 
Where  the  tall  turret  rises  high, 
•And  winds  alone  come  near  to  rustle 
The  thick  leaves  where  their  cradles  lie.  ^^ 

I  sometimes  think,  when  late  at  even 
I  climb  the  stair  reluctantly, 
Some  shape  that  should  be  well  in  heaven, 
Or  ill  elsewhere,  will  pass  by  me. 

I  fear  to  see  the  very  faces. 
Familiar  thirty  years  ago. 
Even  in  the  old  accustomed  places 
Wliich  look  so  cold  and  gloomy  now. 

I've  come,  to  close  the  window,  hither. 
At  twilight,  when  the  sun  was  down. 
And  Fear,  my  very  soul  would  wither. 
Lest  something  should  be  dimly  shown. 

Too  much  the  buried  form  resembling. 
Of  her  who  once  was  mistress  here  ; 
Lest  doubtful  shade,  or  moonbeam  trembling, 
Might  take  her  aspect,  once  so  dear. 

Hers  was  this  chamber ;  in  her  time 
It  seemed  to  me  a  pleasant  room. 
For  then  no  cloud  of  grief  or  crime 
Had  cursed  it  with  a  settled  gloom ; 

I  had  not  seen  death's  image  laid 
In  shroud  and  sheet,  on  yonder  bed. 


26  MEMENTOS. 

Before  she  married,  she  was  blest —  ' 

Blest  in  her  youth,  blest  in  her  worth ; 
Her  mind  was  calm,  its  sunny  rest 
Shone  in  her  eyes  more  clear  than  mirth  v 

And  when  attired  in  rich  array, 

Light,  lustrous  hair  about  her  brow, 

She  yonder  sat — a  kind  of  day 

Lit  up — what  seems  so  gloomy  now. 

These  grim  oak  walls,  even  then  were  grim ; 

That  old  carved  chair,  was  then  antique ; 

But  what  around  looked  dusk  and  dim 

Served  as  a  foil  to  her  fresh  cheek  ; 

Her  neck,  and  arms,  of  hue  so  fair, 

Eyes  of  unclouded,  smiling  light ; 

Her  soft,  and  curled,  and  floating  hair. 

Gems  and  attire,  as  rainbow  bright. 

Reclined  in  yonder  deep  recess, 
Ofttimes  she  would,  at  evening,  lie 
Watching  the  sun  ;  she  seemed  to  bless 
With  happy  glance  the  glorious  sky. 
She  loved  such  scenes,  and  as  she  gazed. 
Her  face  evinced  her  spirit's  mood ; 
Beauty  or  grandeur  ever  raised 
In  her,  a  deep-felt  gratitude. 

But  of  all  lovely  things,  she  loved 
A  cloudless  moon,  on  summer  night ; 


MEMENTOS.  27 

Full  oft  have  I  impatience  proved 
To  see  how  long,  her  still  delight 
Would  find  a  theme  in  reverie. 
Out  on  the  lawn,  or  where  the  trees 
Let  in  the  lustre  fitfully. 
As  their  boughs  parted  momently. 
To  the  soft,  languid,  summer  breeze. 
Alas  !  that  she  should  e'er  have  flung 
Those  pure,  though  lonely  joys  away- 
Deceived  by  false  and  guileful  tongue. 
She  gave  her  hand,  then  suffered  wrong ; 
Oppressed,  ill-used,  she  faded  young. 
And  died  of  grief  by  slow  decay. 

Open  that  casket — look  how  bright 
Those  jewels  flash  upon  the  sight ; 
The  brilliants  have  not  lost  a  ray 
Of  lustre,  since  her  wedding-day. 
But  see — upon  that  pearly  chain — 
How  dim  Hes  time's  discolouring  stain ! 
I've  seen  that  by  her  daughter  worn : 
For,  e'er  she  died,  a  child  was  born : 
A  child  that  ne'er  its  mother  knew. 
That  lone,  and  almost  friendless  grew ; 
For,  ever,  when  its  step  drew  nigh, 
Averted  was  the  father's  eye  ; 
And  then,  a  life  impure  and  wild 
Made  him  a  stranger  to  his  child ; 
Absorbed  in  vice,  he  Httle  cared 
On  what  she  did,  or  how  she  fared. 


%  MEMENTOS. 

The  love  withheld,  she  never  sought, 
She  grew  uncherished — learnt  untaught ; 
To  her  the  inward  life  of  thought 

Full  soon  was  open  laid. 
I  know  not  if  her  friendlessness 
Did  sometimes  on  her  spirit  press, 

But  plaint  she  never  made. 
The  book-shelves  were  her  darling  treasure. 
She  rarely  seemed  the  time  to  measure 

While  she  could  read  alone. 
And  she  too  loved  the  twilight  wood, 
And  often,  in  her  mother's  mood. 
Away  to  yonder  hill  would  hie, 
Like  her,  to  watch  the  setting  sun. 
Or  see  the  stars  born,  one  by  one. 

Out  of  the  darkening  sky. 
Nor  would  she  leave  that  hill  till  night 
Trembled  from  pole  to  pole  with  light ; 
Even  then,  upon  her  homeward  way. 
Long — long  her  wandering  steps  delayed 
To  quit  the  sombre  forest  shade, 
Through  which  her  eerie  pathway  lay. 
You  ask  if  she  had  beauty's  grace  ? 
I  know  not — ^but  a  nobler  face 

My  eyes  have  seldom  seen ; 
A  keen  and  fine  intelligence, 
And,  better  still,  the  truest  sense. 

Were  in  her  speaking  mien. 
But  bloom  or  lustre  was  there  none. 
Only  at  moments,  fitful  shone 


MEMENTOS.  29 

An  ardour  in  her  eye, 
That  kindled  on  her  cheek  a  flush, 
Warm  as  a  red  sky's  passing  blush, 

And  quick  with  energy. 
Her  speech,  too,  was  not  common  speech, 
No  wish  to  shine,  or  aim  to  teach. 

Was  in  her  words  displayed  : 
She  still  began  with  quiet  sense. 
But  oft  the  force  of  eloquence 

Came  to  her  lips  in  aid ; 
Language  and  voice  unconscious  changed, 
And  thoughts,  in  other  words  arranged. 

Her  fervid  soul  transfused 
Into  the  hearts  of  those  who  heard. 
And  transient  strength  and  ardour  stirred, 

In  minds  to  strength  unused. 
Yet  in  gay  crowd  or  festal  glare, 
Grave  and  retiring  was  her  air ; 
'Twas  seldom  save  with  me  alone,  • 
That  fire  of  feeling  freely  shone  ; 
She  loved  not  awe's  nor  wonder's  gaze. 
Nor  even  exaggerated  praise. 
Nor  even  notice,  if  too  keen 
The  curious  gazer  searched  her  mien. 
Nature's  own  green  expanse  revealed 
The  world,  the  pleasures,  she  could  prize  ; 
On  free  hill-side,  in  sunny  field. 
In  quiet  spots  by  woods  concealed. 
Grew  wild  and  fresh  her  chosen  joys. 
Yet  Nature's  feelings  deeply  lay 
2* 


OU  MEMENTOS. 

In  that  endowed  and  youthful  frame ; 
Shrined  in  her  heart  and  hid  from  day, 
They  burned  unseen  with  silent  flame  ; 
In  youth's  first  search  for  mental  light, 
She  lived  but  to  reflect  and  learn, 
But  soon  her  mind's  maturer  might 
For  stronger  task  did  pant  and  yearn ; 
And  stronger  task  did  fate  assign. 
Task  that  a  giant's  strength  might  strain ; 
To  suflfer  long  and  ne'er  repine, 
Be  calm  in  frenzy,  smile  at  pain. 

Pale  with  the  secret  war  of  feeling, 
Sustained  with  courage,  mute,  yet  high ; 
The  wounds  at  which  she  bled,  revealing 
Only  by  altered  cheek  and  eye ; 

She  bore  in  silence — ^but  when  passion 
Surged  in  her  soul  with  ceaseless  foam, 
The  storm  at  last  brought  desolation, 
And  drove  her  exiled  from  her  home. 

And  silent  still,  she  straight  assembled 
The  wrecks  of  strength  her  soul  retained  ; 
For  though  the  wasted  body  trembled. 
The  unconquered  mind,  to  quail,  disdained. 

She  crossed  the  sea — now  lone  she  wanders 
By  Seine's,  or  Rhine's  or  Arno's  flow ; 


^^ 


MEMENTOS.  81 

Fain  would  I  know  if  distance  renders 
Relief  or  comfort  to  her  woe. 

Fain  would  I  know  if,  henceforth,  ever, 
These  eyes  shall  read  in  hers  again, 
That  light  of  love  which  faded  never, 
Though  dimmed  so  long  with  secret  pain. 

She  will  return,  but  cold  and  altered. 
Like  all  whose  hopes  too  soon  depart ; 
Like  all  on  whom  have  beat,  unshehered. 
The  bitter  blasts  that  bhght  the  heart. 

# 
No  more  shall  I  behold  her  lying. 

Calm  on  a  pillow,  smoothed  by  me  ; 

No  more  that  spirit,  worn  with  sighing, 

Will  know  the  rest  of  infancy. 

If  still  the  paths  of  lore  she  follow, 
'Twill  be  with  tired  and  goaded  will ; 
She'll  only  toil,  the  aching  hollow. 
The  joyless  blank  of  hfe  to  fill. 

And  oh  !  full  oft,  quite  spent  and  weary. 
Her  hand  will  pause,  her  head  decline  ; 
That  labour  seems  so  hard  and  dreary. 
On  which  no  ray  of  hope  may  shine. 

Thus  the  pale  blight  of  time  and  sorrow 
Will  shade  with  grey  her  soft,  dark  hair ; 


32  MEMENTOS. 

Then  comes  the  day  that  knows  no  morrow, 
And  death  succeeds  to  long  despair. 

So  speaks  experience,  sage  and  hoary ; 
I  see  it  plainly,  know  it  well, 
Like  one  who,  having  read  a  story, 
Each  incident  therein  can  tell. 

Touch  not  that  ring,  'twas  his,  the  sire 

Of  that  forsaken  child  ; 
And  nought  his  relics  can  inspire 

Save  memories,  sin-defiled. 

I,  who  sat  by  his  wife's  death-bed, 

I,  who  his  daughter  loved. 
Could  almost  curse  the  guilty  dead, 

For  woes,  the  guiltless  proved. 

And  heaven  did  curse — they  found  him  laid. 
When  crime  for  wrath  was  jd^i  .  r/  '  C- 

Cold — with  the  suicidal  blade 
Clutched  in  his  desperate  gripe. 

'Twas  near  that  long-deserted  hut, 

Which  in  the  wood  decays. 
Death's  axe,  self-wielded,  struck  his  root, 

And  lopped  his  desperate  days. 

'  Ypu  know  the  spot,  where  three  black  trees 
Lift  up  their  branches  fell, 


And  moaning,  ceaseless  as  the  seas,  '^ 
Still  seem,  in  every  passing  breeze, 
The  deed  of  blood  to  tell. 

They  named  him  mad,  and  laid  his  bones 

Where  holier  ashes  lie  ; 
Yet  doubt  not  that  his  spirit  groans, 

In  hell's  eternity. 

But,  lo  !  night,  closing  o'er  the  earth, 

Infects  our  thoughts  with  gloom ; 
Come,  let  us  strive  to  rally  mirth. 
Where  glows  a  clear  and  tranquil  hearth 

In  some  more  cheerful  room, 

CURRER. 


STARS. 


Ah  !  why,  because  the  dazzling  sun 

Restored  our  Earth  to  joy. 
Have  you  departed,  every  one, 

And  left  a  desert  sky  ? 

All  through  the  night,  your  glorious  eyes 

Were  gazing  down  in  mine, 
And,  with  a  full  heart's  thankful  sighs, 

I  blessed  that  watch  divine. 


^4  STARS. 

I  was  at  peace,  and  drank  your  beams 

As  they  were  life  to  me  ; 
And  revelled  in  my  changeful  dreams. 

Like  petrel  on  the  sea. 

Thought  followed  thought,  star  followed  star. 
Through  boundless  regions,  on  ; 

While  one  sweet  influence,  near  and  far. 
Thrilled  through,  and  proved  us  one  ! 

Why  did  the  morning  dawn  to  break 

So  great,  so  pure,  a  spell ; 
And  scorch  with  fire,  the  tranquil  cheek. 

Where  your  cool  radiance  fell  ? 

Blood-red,  he  rose,  and,  arrow-straight. 
His  fierce  beams  struck  my  brow  ; 

The  soul  of  nature,  sprang,  elate. 
But  mine  sank  sad  and  low  ! 

My  lids  closed  down,  yet  through  their  veil, 

I  saw  him,  blazing,  still. 
And  steep  in  gold  the  misty  dale, 

And  flash  upon  the  hill. 

C  I  turned  me  to  the  pillow,  then, 
To  call  back  night,  and  see. 
Your  worlds  of  solemn  light,  again, 
Throb  with  my  heart,  and  me  ! 


THE    PHILOSOPHER.  HB 

It  would  not  do— -the  pillow  glowed, 

And  glowed  both  roof  and  floor ; 
And  birds  sang  loudly  in  the  wood, 

And  fresh  winds  shook  the  door ; 

The  curtains  waved,  the  wakened  flies 
Were  murmuring  round  my  room, 

Imprisoned  there,  till  I  should  rise. 
And  give  them  leave  to  roam. 

Oh,  stars,  and  dreams,  and  gentle  night ; 

Oh,  night  and  stars,  return  ! 
And  hide  me  from  the  hostile  light, 

That  does  not  warm,  but  burn ; 

That  drains  the  blood  of  suffering  men  ; 

Drinks  tears,  instead  of  dew ; 
Let  me  sleep  through  his  blinding  reign, 

And  only  wake  with  you  ! 

Ellis 


THE  PHILOSOPHER. 

"  Enough  of  thought,  philosopher ! 

Too  long  hast  thou  been  dreaming, 
Uniightened,  in  this  chamber  drear. 

While  summer's  sun  is  beaming ! 
Space-sweeping  soul,  what  sad  refrain 
Concludes  thy  musings  once  again  ? 


36  THE    PHILOSOPHETl. 

"  Oh,  for  the  time  when  I  shall  sleep 
Without  identity, 

And  never  care  how  rain  may  steep, 
Or  snow  may  cover  me  1 
No  promised  heaven,  these  wild  desires, 
Could  all,  or  half  fulfil ; 
No  threatened  hell,  with  quenchless  fires, 
Subdue  this  quenchless  will !" 

"  So  said  I,  and  still  say  the  same  ; 

Still,  to  my  death,  will  say — 
Three  gods,  within  this  little  frame, 

Are  warring  night  and  day ; 
Heaven  could  not  hold  them  all,  and  yet 

They  all  are  held  in  me  ; 
And  must  be  mine  till  I  forget 

My  present  entity ! 
Oh,  for  the  time,  when  in  my  breast 

Their  struggles  will  be  o'er  ! 
Oh,  for  the  day,  when  I  shall  rest. 

And  never  suffer  more  !" 

"  I  saw  a  spirit,  standing,  man, 

Where  thou  dost  stand — an  hour  ago, 
And  round  his  feet  three  rivers  ran. 

Of  equal  depth,  and  equal  flow — 
A  golden  stream — and  one  like  blood  ; 

And  one  like  sapphire  seemed  to  be  ; 
But,  where  they  joined  their  triple  flood 

It  tumlbed  in  an  inky  sea. 


THE   PHILOSOPHER.  37 

The  spirit  sent  his  dazzling  gaze 

Down  through  that  ocean's  gloomy  night 

Then,  kindling  all,  with  sudden  blaze. 

The  glad  deep  sparkled  wide  and  bright — 

White  as  the  sun,  far,  far  more  fair 
Than  its  divided  sources  were  !" 

"  And  even  for  that  spirit,  seer, 

I've  watched  and  sought  my  life-time  long ; 
Sought  him  in  heaven,  hell,  earth,  and  air — 

An  endless  search,  and  always  wrong ! 
Had  I  but  seen  his  glorious  eye 

Once  light  the  clouds  that  wilder  me, 
I  ne'er  had  raised  this  coward  cry 

To  cease  to  think,  and  cease  to  be ; 
I  ne'er  had  called  oblivion  blest. 

Nor,  stretching  eager  hands  to  death,  r 

Implored  to  change  for  senseless  rest 

This  sentient  soul,  this  living  breath — 
Oh,  let  me  die — that  power  and  will 

Their  cruel  strife  may  close  ; 
And  conquered  good,  and  conquering  ill  ^ 

Be  lost  in  one  repose  !" 

Ellis. 
3 


THE  ARBOUR. 

I'll  rest  me  in  this  sheltered  bower, 
And  look  upon  the  clear  blue  sky- 
That  smiles  upon  me  through  the  trees, 
Which  stand  so  thickly  clustering  by ; 

And  view  their  green  and  glossy  leaves. 
All  gHstening  in  the  sunshine  fair ; 
And  list  the  rustling  of  their  boughs, 
So  softly  whispering  through  the  air. 

And  while  my  ear  drinks  in  the  sound. 
My  winged  soul  shall  fly  away ; 
Reviewing  long-departed  years 
As  one  mild,  beaming,  autumn  day ; 

And  soaring  on  to  future  scenes. 
Like  hills  and  woods,  and  valleys  green. 
All  basking  in  the  summer's  sun. 
But  distant  still,  and  dimly  seen. 

Oh,  list !  'tis  summer's  very  breath 
That  gently  skakes  the  rustling  trees — 
But  look  !  the  snow  is  on  the  ground — 
How  can  I  think  of  scenes  like  these  ? 


HOME. 

'Tis  but  X\ie  frost  that  clears  the  air, 
And  gives  the  sky  that  lovely  blue  ; 
They're  smiling  in  a  winter^ s  sun, 
Those  evergreens  of  sombre  hue. 

And  winter's  chill  is  on  my  heart — 
How  can  I  dream  of  future  bliss  ? 
How^can  my  spirit  soar  away, 
Confined  by  such  a  chain  as  this  ? 


HOME. 


Acton.  i 

1 


How  brightly  glistening  in  the  sun 

The  woodland  ivy  plays  ! 
While  yonder  beeches  from  their  barks 

Reflect  his  silver  rays. 

That  sun  surve)''s  a  lovely  scene 

From  softly  smiling  skies  ; 
And  wildly  through  unnumbered  trees 

The  wind  of  winter  sighs : 

Now  loud,  it  thunders  o'er  my  head, 

And  now  in  distance  dies. 
But  give  me  back  my  barren  hills 

Where  colder  breezes  rise  ; 


40  THE    wife's   will. 

Where  scarce  the  scattered,  stunted  trees 
Can  yield  an  answering  swell, 
'  But  where  a  wilderness  of  heath 
Returns  the  sound  as  well. 

For  yonder  garden,  fair  and  wide, 

With  groves  of  evergreen. 
Long  winding  walks,  and  borders  trim, 

And  velvet  lawns  between ; 

Restore  to  me  that  little  spot. 

With  grey  walls  compassed  round, 

Where  knotted  grass  neglected  lies. 
And  weeds  usurp  the  ground. 

Though  all  around  this  mansion  high 

Invites  the  foot  to  roam. 
And  though  its  halls  are  fair  within — 

Oh,  give  me  back  my  Home  ! 


Acton. 


THE  WIFE'S  WILL. 

Sit  still — a  word — a  breath  may  break 
(As  light  airs  stir  a  sleeping  lake,) 
The  glassy  calm  that  soothes  my  woes. 
The  sweet,  the  deep,  the  full  repose. 


THE    wife's   will.  41 

0  leave  me  not !  for  ever  be 
Thus,  more  than  life  itself  to  me  ! 

Yes,  close  beside  thee,  let  me  kneel — 
Give  me  thy  hand  that  I  may  feel 
The  friend  so  true — so  tried — so  dear, 
My  heart's  own  chosen — indeed  is  near ; 
And  check  me  not — this  hour  divine 
Belongs  to  me — is  fully  mine. 

'Tis  thy  own  hearth  thou  sitt'st  beside. 
After  long  absence — wandering  wide  ; 
'Tis  thy  own  wife  reads  in  thine  eyes, 
A  promise  clear  of  stormless  skies, 
For  faith  and  true  love  light  the  rays, 
Which  shine  responsive  to  her  gaze. 

Aye, — well  that  single  tear  may  fall ; 
Ten  thousand  might  mine  eyes  recall. 
Which  from  their  lids,  ran  blinding  fast, 
In  hours  of  grief,  yet  scarcely  past, 
Well  may'st  thou  speak  of  love  to  me ; 
For,  oh  !  most  truly — I  tbve  thee  ! 

Yet  smile — for  we  are  happy  now. 
Whence,  then,  that  sadness  on  thy  brow  ? 
What  say'st  thou  ?     "  We  must  once  again. 
Ere  long,  be  severed  by  the  main  ?" 

1  knew  not  this-^-I  deemed  no  more. 
Thy  step  would  err  from  Britain's  shore. 


42  THE  wife's  will. 

"  Duty  commands  ?"     'Tis  true — 'tis  just ; 
Thy  slightest  word  I  wholly  trust, 
Nor  by  request,  nor  faintest  sigh 
Would  I,  to  turn  thy  purpose,  try ; 
But,  William — hear  my  solemn  vow — 
Hear  and  confirm  ! — with  thee  I  go. 

"  Distance  and  suffering,"  did'st  thou  say  ? 
"Danger  by  night,  and  toil  by  day  ?" 
Oh,  idle  words,  and  vain  are  these  ; 
Hear  me  !     I  cross  with  thee  the  seas. 
Such  risk  as  thou  must  meet  and  dare, 
I — thy  true  wife — will  duly  share. 

Passive,  at  home,  I  will  not  pine  ; 
Thy  toils — thy  perils,  shall  be  mine  ; 
(jrrant  this — and  be  herea#er  paid 
.By  a  warm  heart's  devoted  aid  : 
'Tis  granted — with  that  yielding  kiss. 
Entered  my  soul  unmingled  bliss. 

Thanks,  William — ^thanks  !  thy  love  has  joy, 
Pure — undefiled  with  base  alloy ; 
'Tis  not  a  passion,  false  and  blind. 
Inspires,  enchains,  absorbs  my  mind ; 
Worthy,  I  feel,  art  thou  to  be 
Loved  with  my  perfect  energy. 

This  evening,  now,  shall  sweetly  flow, 
Lit  by  our  clear  fire's  happy  glow ; 


REMEMBRANCE. 


And  parting's  peace-embittering  fear, 
Is  warned,  our  hearts  to  come  not  near ; 
For  fate  admits  my  soul's  decree, 
In  bliss  or  bale — to  go  with  thee  ! 


CURRER. 


REMEMBRANCE. 

Cold  in  the  earth — ^and  the  deep  snow  piled  above 

thee. 
Far,  far,  removed,  cold  in^;he  dreary  grave! 
Have  I  forgot,  my  only  Love,  to  love  thee, 
Severed  at  last  by  Time's  all-severing  wave  ? 

Now,  when  alone,  do  my  thoughts  no  longer  hover 
Over  the  mountains,  on  that  northern  shore. 
Resting  their  wings  where  heath  and  fern -leaves 

cover 
Thy  noble  heart  for  ever,  ever  more  ? 

Cold  in  the  earth — and  fifteen  wild  Decembers, 
From  those  brown  hills,  have  melted  into  spring : 
Faithful,  indeed,  is  the  spirit  that  remembers 
After  such  years  of  change  and  suffering ! 


44  REMEMBRANCE. 

Sweet  Love  of  youth,  forgive,  if  I  forget  thee,       . 
While  the  world's  tide  is  bearing  me  along ;    ;iw  ai  ' 
Other  desires  and  other  hopes  beset  me, 
Hopes  which  obscure,  but  cannot  do  thee  wrong ! 

No  later  light  has  lightened  up  my  heaven. 
No  second  mom  has  ever  shone  for  me ; 
All  my  life's  bliss  from  thy  dear  Hfe  was  given. 
All  my  life's  bliss  is  in  the  grave  with  thee. 

But,  when  the  days  of  golden  dreams  had  perished. 
And  even  Despair  was  powerless  to  destroy  ; 
Then  did  I  learn  how  existence  could  be  cherished. 
Strengthened,  and  fed  without  the  aid  of  joy. 

Then  did  I  check  the  tears  of  useless  passion — 
Weaned  my  young  soul  from  yearning  after  thine  ; 
Sternly  denied  its  burning  wish  to  hasten 
Down  to  that  tomb  already  more  than  mine. 

And,  even  yet,  I  dare  not  let  it  languish,  mm  «y7i 
Dare  not  indulge  in  memory's  rapturous  pain ; 
Once  drinking  deep  of  that  divinest  anguish. 
How  could  I  seek  the  empty  world  again  ? 

Ellis. 


45 -^^m? 


7ANITAS  VANITATUM,  OMNIA  VANITAS. 

j_  j;  J  _-  _  i 

In  all  we  do,  and  hear,  and  see, 
Is  restless  Toil  and  Vanity. 
While  yet  the  rolling  earth  abides. 
Men  come  and  go  like  ocean  tides ; 

And  ere  one  generation  dies, 
Another  in  its  place  shall  rise  ; 
TTiat,  sinking  soon  into  the  grave, 
Others  succeed,  hke  wave  on  wave ; 

And  as  they  rise,  they  pass  away. 
The  sun  arises  every  day, 
And,  hastening  onward  to  the  West, 
He  nightly  sinks,  but  not  to  rest : 

Returning  to  the  eastern  skies, 
Again  to  light  us,  he  must  rise. 
And  still  the  restless  wind  comes  forth. 
Now  blowing  keenly  from  the  North ; 

Now  from  the  South,  the  East,  the  West, 
For  ever  changing,  ne'er  at  rest. 
The  fountains,  gushing  from  the  hills, 
Supply  the  ever-running  rills  ; 

The  thirsty  rivers  drink  their  store, 
And  bear  it  roUing  to  the  shore, 


fw^sf  nV 


46  VANITAS   VANITATUM,  OMNIA   VANITAS. 

But  still  the  ocean  craves  for  more. 
'Tis  endless  labour  everywhere  ! 
Sound  cannot  satisfy  the  ear, 

Light  cannot  fill  the  craving  eye, 
Nor  riches  half  our  wants  supply ; 
Pleasure  but  doubles  future  pain. 
And  joy  brings  sorrow  in  her  train  ; 

Laughter  is  mad,  and  reckless  mirth — 
What  does  she  in  this  weary  earth  ? 
Should  Wealth,  or  Fame,  our  Life  employ, 
Death  comes,  our  labour  to  destroy  ; 

To  snatch  the  untasted  cup  away. 
For  which  we  toiled  so  many  a  day. 
What,  then,  remains  for  wretched  man  ? 
To  use  life's  comforts  while  he  can, 

Enjoy  the  blessings  Heaven  bestows. 
Assist  his  friends,  forgive  his  foes  ; 
Trust  God,  and  keep  his  statutes  still. 
Upright  and  firm,  through  good  and  ill ; 

Thankful  for  all  that  God  has  given. 
Fixing  his  firmest  hopes  on  heaven ; 
Knowing  that  earthly  joys  decay. 
But  hoping  through  the  darkest  day. 

Acton. 


47 


THE  WOOD. 

But  two  miles  more,  and  then  we  rest ! 
Well,  there  is  still  an  hour  of  day. 
And  long  the  brightness  of  the  West 
Will  light  us  on  our  devious  way ; 
Sit  then,  awhile,  here  in  this  wood- 
So  total  is  the  solitude. 
We  safely  may  delay. 

These  massive  roots  afford  a  seat, 
Which  seems  for  weary  travellers  made. 
There  rest.     The  air  is  soft  and  sweet 
In  this  sequestered  forest  glade. 
And  there  are  scents  of  flowers  around. 
The  evening  dew  draws  from  the  ground ; 
How  soothingly  they  spread  ! 

Yes  ;  I  was  tired,  but  not  at  heart ; 
No — ^that  beats  full  of  sweet  content, 
For  now  I  have  my  natural  part 
Of  action  with  adventure  blent ; 
Cast  forth  on  the  wide  world  with  thee, 
And  all  my  once  waste  energy 
To  weighty  purpose  bent. 

Yet — say'st  thou,  spies  around  us  roam, 
Our  aims  are  termed  conspiracy  ? 


48  THE    WOOD. 

Haply,  no  more  our  English  home 
An  anchorage  for  us  may  be  ? 
That  there  is  risk  our  mutual  blood 
May  redden  in  some  lonely  wood 
The  knife  of  treachery  ? 

Say'st  thou — ^that  where  we  lodge  each  night. 

In  each  lone  farm,  or  lonelier  hall 

Of  Norman  Peer— ere  morning  light 

Suspicion  must  as  duly  fall, 

As  day  returns — such  vigilance  ^.iuii,c  •>  ^^ 

Presides  and  watches  over  France, 

Such  rigour  governs  all  ?  1' 

I  fear  not,  William ;  dost  thou  fear  ? 
So  that  the  knife  does  not  divide,  t 

It  may  be  ever  hovering  near : 
I  could  not  tremble  at  thy  side. 
And  strenuous  love — like  mine  for  thee —  riOia 
Is  buckler  strong,  'gainst  treachery, 
And  turns  its  stab  aside. 

I  am  resolved  that  thou  shalt  learn  "  >''^ 

To  trust  my  strength  as  I  trust  thine ; 
I  am  resolved  our  souls  shall  burn. 
With  equal,  steady,  mingling  shine  ; 
Part  of  the  field  is  conquered  now, 
Our  lives  in  the  same  channel  flow, 
Along  the  self-same  line  ; 


THE    WOOD.  49 

And  while  no  groaning  storm  is  heard, 
Thou  seem'st  content  it  should  be  so, 
But  soon  as  comes  a  warning  word 
Of  danger — straight  thine  anxious  brow 
Bends  over  me  a  mournful  shade, 
As  doubting  if  my  powers  are  made 
To  ford  the  floods  of  woe. 

Know,  then  it  is  my  spirit  swells. 
And  drinks,  with  eager  joy,  the  air 
Of  freedom — where  at  last  it  dwells. 
Chartered,  a  common  task  to  share 
With  thee,  and  then  it  stirs  alert. 
And  pants  to  learn  what  menaced  hurt 
Demands  for  thee  its  care. 

Remember,  I  have  crossed  the  deep. 
And  stood  with  thee  on  deck,  to  gaze 
On  waves  that  rose  in  threatening  heap, 
While  stagnant  lay  a  heavy  haze. 
Dimly  confusing  sea  with  sky 
And  baffling,  even,  the  pilot's  eye. 
Intent  to  thread  the  maze — 

Of  rocks,  on  Bretagne's  dangerous  coast. 
And  find  a  way  to  steer  our  band 
To  the  one  point  obscure,  which  lost. 
Flung  us,  as  victims,  on  the  strand ; — 
All,  elsewhere,  gleamed  the  Gallic  sword. 
And  not  a  wherry  could  be  moored 
Along  the  guarded  land. 


50  THE    WOOD. 

I  feared  not  then — I  fear  not  now ; 
The  interest  of  each  stirring  scene 
Wakes  a  new  sense,  a  welcome  glow, 
In  every  nerve  and  bounding  vein  ; 
Alike  on  turbid  Channel  sea, 
Or  in  still  wood  of  Normandy, 
I  feel  as  born  again. 

The  rain  descended  that  wild  mom 
When,  anchoring  in  the  cove  at  last, 
Our  band,  all  weary  and  forlorn. 
Ashore,  like  wave-worn  sailors,  cast — 
Sought  for  a  sheltering  roof  in  vain. 
And  scarce  could  scanty  food  obtain 
To  break  their  morning  fast. 

Thou  didst  thy  crust  with  me  divide, 
Thou  didst  thy  cloak  around  me  fold ; 
And,  sitting  silent  by  thy  side, 
I  ate  the  bread  in  peace  untold : 
Given  kindly  from  thy  hand,  'twas  sweet 
As  costly  fare  or  princely  treat 
On  royal  plate  of  gold. 

Sharp  blew  the  sleet  upon  my  face. 
And,  rising  wild,  the  gusty  wind 
Drove  on  those  thundering  waves  apace, 
Our  crew  so  late  had  left  behind  ; 
But,  spite  of  frozen  shower  and  storm. 
So  close  to  thee,  my  heart  beat  warm. 
And  tranquil  slept  my  mind. 


THE    WOOD.  51 

So  now— nor  foot-sore  nor  opprest 
With  walking  all  this  August  day, 
I  taste  a  heaven  in  this  brief  rest, 
This  gipsy-halt  beside  the  way. 
England's  wild  flowers  are  fair  to  view, 
Like  balm  is  England's  summer  dew, 
Like  gold  her  sunset  ray. 

But  the  white  violets,  growing  here. 
Are  sweeter  than  I  yet  have  seen, 
And  ne'er  did  dew  so  pure  and  clear 
Distil  on  forest  mosses  green. 
As  now,  called  forth  by  summer  heat. 
Perfumes  our  cool  and  fresh  retreat — 
These  fragrant  limes  between. 

That  sunset !  Look  beneath  the  boughs. 
Over  the  copse — ^beyond  the  hills  ; 
How  soft,  yet  deep  and  warm  it  glows, 
And  heaven  with  rich  suffusion  fills ; 
With  hues  where  still  the  opal's  tint. 
Its  gleam  of  prisoned  fire  is  blent. 

Where  flame  through  azure  thrills  ! 

Depart  we  now — for  fast  will  fade 
That  solemn  splendour  of  decline. 
And  deep  must  be  the  after-shade 
As  stars  alone  to-night  will  shine  ; 
No  moon  is  destined — pale — to  gaze 
On  such  a  day's  vast  PhcEuix  blaze, 
A  day  in  fires  decayed ! 


52  A   DEATH-SCENE. 

There— hand-in-hand  we  tread  again 
The  mazes  of  this  varying  wood, 
And  soon,  amid  a  cultured  plain. 
Girt  in  with  fertile  solitude. 
We  shall  our  resting-place  descry, 
Marked  by  one  roof-tree,  towering  high 
Above  a  farm-stead  rude. 

Refreshed,  erelong,  with  rustic  fare, 
We'll  seek  a  couch  of  dreamless  ease  ; 
Courage  will  guard  thy  heart  from  fear, 
And  Love  give  mine  divinest  peace : 
To-morrow  brings  more  dangerous  toil, 
And  through  its  conflict  and  turmoil 
We'll  pass,  as  God  shall  please. 

CURRER. 

[The  preceding  composition  refers,  doubtless,  to  the  scenes 
acted  in  France  during  the  last  year  of  the  Consulate.] 


A  DEATH-SCENE. 

"  O  Day  !  he  cannot  die 
When  thou  so  fair  art  shining ! 
O  Sun,  in  such  a  glorious  sky, 
So  tranquilly  declining ; 


A   DEATH-SCENE.  53 

He  cannot  leave  thee  now, 

While  fresh  west  winds  are  blowing, 

And  all  around  his  youthful  brow 

Thy  cheerful  light  is  glowing !  ^ 

Edward,  awake,  awake—- 
The  golden  evening  gleams 
Warm  and  bright  on  Arden's  lake — 
Arouse  thee  from  thy  dreams  ! 

Beside  thee,  on  my  knee. 
My  dearest  friend  !  I  pray 
That  thou,  to  cross  the  eternal  sea, 
Would'st  yet  one  hour  delay : 

I  hear  its  billows  roar — 
I  see  them  foaming  high  ; 
But  no  glimpse  of  a  further  shore 
Has  blest  my  straining  eye. 

Believe  not  what  they  urge 
Of  Eden  isles  beyond  ;         :^l^,^y 
Turn  back,  from  that  tempestuous  surge, 
To  thy  own  native  land.      4lJ\.o-^u^' 

It  is  not  death,  but  pain 
That  struggles  in  thy  breast — 
Nay,  rally,  Edward,  rouse  again  ; 
I  cannot  let  thee  rest !" 
3* 


54  A   DEATH-SCENE. 

One  long  look,  that  sore  reproved  me 
For  the  woe  I  could  not  bear — 
One  mute  look  of  suffering  moved  me 
>    To  repent  my  useless  prayer : 

And,  with  sudden  check,  the  heaving 
Of  distraction  passed  away  ; 
Not  a  sign  of  further  grieving 
Stirred  my  soul  that  awful  day. 

Paled,  at  length,  the  sweet  sun  setting ; 
Sunk  to  peace  the  twilight  breeze ; 
Summer  dews  fell  softly,  wetting 
Glen,  and  glade,  and  silent  trees. 

Then  his  eyes  began  to  weary. 
Weighed  beneath  a  mortal  sleep  ; 
And  their  orbs  grew  strangely  dreary, 
Clouded,  even  as  they  would  weep. 

But  they  wept  not,  but  they  changed  not, 
Never  moved,  and  never  closed  ; 
Troubled  still,  and  still  they  ranged  not — 
Wandered  not,  nor  yet  reposed  ! 

So  I  knew  that  he  was  dying — 
Stooped,  and  raised  his  languid  head ; 
Felt  no  breath,  and  heard  no  sighing, 
So  I  knew  that  he  was  dead. 

Ellis. 


55 


SONG. 

The  linnet  in  the  rocky  dells, 

The  moor-lark  in  the  air, 
The  bee  among  the  heather  bells, 

That  hide  my  lady  fair : 

The  wild  deer  browse  above  her  breast ; 

The  wild  birds  raise  their  brood ; 
And  they,  her  smiles  of  love  caressed, 

Have  left  her  solitude  ! 

I  ween,  that  when  the  grave's  dark  wall 

Did  first  her  form  retain  ; 
They  thought  their  hearts  could  ne'er  recall 

The  light  of  joy  again. 

They  thought  the  tide  of  grief  would  flow 
Unchecked  through  future  years  ; 

But  where  is  all  their  anguish  now, 
And  where  are  all  their  tears  ? 

Well,  let  them  fight  for  honour's  breath. 

Or  pleasure's  shade  pursue — 
The  dweller  in  the  land  of  death 

Is  changed  and  careless  too. 

And,  if  their  eyes  should  watch  and  weep 
Till  sorrow's  source  were  dry, 


56  THE    PENITENT. 

She  would  not,  in  her  tranquil  sleep, 
Return  a  single  sigh ! 

Blow,  west-wind,  by  the  lonely  mound, 
And  murmur,  summer  streams — 

There  is  no  need  of  other  sound 
To  soothe  my  lady's  dreams. 


Ellis. 


THE  PENITENT. 

I  MOURN  with  thee,  and  yet  rejoice 
That  thou  shouldst  sorrow  so ; 

With  angel  choirs  I  join  my  voice 
To  bless  the  sinner's  woe. 

Though  friends  and  kindred  turn  away. 
And  laugh  thy  grief  to  scorn  ; 

I  hear  the  great  Redeemer  say, 
"  Blessed  are  ye  that  mourn." 

Hold  on  thy  course,  nor  deem  it  strange 
That  earthly  cords  are  riven : 

Man  may  lament  the  wondrous  change, 
But  "  there  is  joy  in  heaven !" 


Acton. 


57 


MUSIC  ON  CHRISTMAS  MORNING. 

Music  I  love— but  never  strain 
Could  kindle  raptures  so  divine, 
So  grief  assuage,  so  conquer  pain. 
And  rouse  this  pensive  heart  of  mine — 
As  that  we  hear  on  Christmas  morn, 
Upon  the  wintry  breezes  borne. 

Though  Darkness  still  her  empire  keep, 
And  hours  must  pass,  ere  morning  break ; 
From  troubled  dreams,  or  slumbers  deep, 
That  music  kindly  bids  us  wake  ; 
It  calls  us,  with  an  angel's  voice. 
To  wake,  and  worship,  and  rejoice  ; 

To  greet  with  joy  the  glorious  morn, 
Which  angels  welcomed  long  ago. 
When  our  redeeming  Lord  was  born, 
To  bring  the  light  of  Heaven  below  ; 
The  Powers  of  Darkness  to  dispel. 
And  rescue  Earth  from  Death  and  Hell. 

While  listening  to  that  sacred  strain, 

My  raptured  spirit  soars  on  high ; 

I  seem  to  hear  those  songs  again 

Resounding  through  the  open  sky, 

That  kindled  such  divine  delight. 

In  those  who  watched  their  flocks  by  night. 


58  FRANCES. 

With  them,  I  celebrate  His  birth — 
Glory  to  God,  in  highest  Heaven, 
Good-will  to  men,  and  peace  on  Earth, 
To  us  a  Saviour-king  is  given ; 
Our  God  is  come  to  claim  His  own, 
And  Satan's  power  is  overthrown  ! 

A  sinless  God,  for  sinful  men. 
Descends  to  suffer  and  to  bleed  ; 
Hell  must  renounce  its  empire  then  ; 
The  price  is  paid,  the  world  is  freed. 
And  Satan's  self  must  now  confess. 
That  Christ  has  earned  a  Right  to  bless  : 

Now  holy  Peace  may  smile  from  heaven. 
And  heavenly  Truth  from  earth  shall  spring : 
The  captive's  galling  bonds  are  riven, 
For  our  Redeemer  is  our  king ; 
And  He  that  gave  his  blood  for  men 
Will  lead  us  home  to  God  again  • 


Acton. 


FRANCES. 

She  will  not  sleep,  for  fear  of  dreams, 
But,  rising,  quits  her  restless  bed. 
And  walks  where  some  beclouded  beams 
Of  moonlight  through  the  hall  are  shed. 


59 


Obedient  to  the  goad  of  grief, 

Her  steps,  now  fast,  now  lingering  slow, 

In  varying  motion  seek  relief 

From  the  Eumenides  of  woe. 

Wringing  her  hands,  at  intervals — 
But  long  as  mute  as  phantom  dim — 
She  ghdes  along  the  dusky  walls. 
Under  the  black  oak  rafters,  grim. 

The  close  air  of  the  grated  tower 
Stifles  a  heart  that  scarce  can  beat. 
And  though  so  late  and  lone  the  hour. 
Forth  pass  her  wandering,  faltering  feet ; 

And  on  the  pavement,  spread  before 
The  long  front  of  the  mansion  grey. 
Her  steps  imprint  the  night-frost  hoar. 
Which  pale  on  grass  and  granite  lay. 

Not  long  she  stayed  where  misty  moon 
And  shimmering  stars  could  on  her  look. 
But  through  the  garden  arch-way,  soon 
Her  strange  and  gloomy  path  she  took. 

Some  firs,  coeval  with  the  tower. 

Their  straight  black  boughs  stretched  o'er  her  head 

Unseen,  beneath  this  sable  bower. 

Rustled  her  dress  and  rapid  tread. 


60  FRANCES. 

There  was  an  alcove  in  that  shade, 
Screening  a  rustic-seat  and  stand ; 
Weary  she  sat  her  down  and  laid 
Her  hot  brow  on  her  burning  hand. 

To  solitude  and  to  the  night. 
Some  words,  she  now,  in  murmurs,  said ; 
And,  trickling  through  her  fingers  white, 
Some  tears  of  misery  she  shed. 

"  God  help  me  in  my  grievous  need, 
God  help  me,  in  my  inward  pain ; 
Which  cannot  ask  for  pity's  meed. 
Which  has  no  license  to  complain ; 

Which  must  be  borne,  yet  who  can  tear. 
Hours  long,  days  long,  a  constant  weight-^ 
The  yoke  of  absolute  despair, 
A  suffering  wholly  desolate  ? 

Who  can  for  ever  crush  the  heart. 
Restrain  its  throbbing,  curb  its  life  ? 
Dissemble  truth  with  ceaseless  art. 
With  outward  calm,  mask  inward  strife  ?" 

She  waited — as  for  some  reply ; 
The  still  and  cloudy  night  gave  none  ; 
Erelong,  with  deep-drawn,  trembling  sigh, 
Her  heavy  plaint  again  begun. 


FRANCES.  61 

"  Unloved — I  love  ;  unwept— -I  weep  ; 
Grief  I  restrain — hope  I  repress  : 
Vain  is  this  anguish — jfixed  and  deep  ; 
Vainer,  desires  and  dreams  of  bliss. 

My  love  awakes  no  love  again. 
My  tears  collect,  and  fall  unfelt ; 
My  sorrow  touches  none  with  pain, 
My  humble  hopes  to  nothing  melt. 

For  me  the  universe  is  dumb. 
Stone-deaf,  and  blank,  and  wholly  blind ; 
Life  I  must  bound,  existence  sum 
In  the  strait  limits  of  one  mind  ; 

That  mind  my  own.     Oh  !  narrow  cell ; 
Dark — imageless — a  living  tomb  ! 
There  must  I  sleep,  there  wake  and  dwell 
Content,  with  palsy,  pain,  and  gloom." 

Again  she  paused  ;  a  moan  of  pain, 
A  stifled  sob,  alone  was  heard ; 
Long  silence  followed — then  again. 
Her  voice  the  stagnant  midnight  stirred. 

"  Must  it  be  so  ?     Is  this  my  fate  ? 
Can  I  nor  struggle,  nor  contend  ? 
And  am  I  doomed  for  years  to  wait. 
Watching  death's  lingering  axe  descend  ? 
4 


62  FRANCES. 

And  when  it  falls,  and  when  I  die, 
What  follows  ?     Vacant  nothingness  ? 
The  blank  of  lost  identity  ? 
Erasure  both  of  pain  and  bliss  ? 

I've  heard  of  heaven — I  would  believe  ; 
For  if  this  earth  indeed  be  all, 
Who  longest  lives  may  deepest  grieve, 
Most  blest,  whom  sorrows  soonest  call. 

Oh  !  leaving  disappointment  here, 
Will  man  find  hope  on  yonder  coast  ? 
Hope,  which,  on  earth,  shines  never  clear. 
And  oft  in  clouds  is  wholly  lost. 

Will  he  hope's  source  of  light  behold, 
Fruition's  spring,  where  doubts  expire. 
And  drink,  in  waves  of  living  gold. 
Contentment,  full,  for  long  desire  ? 

Will  he  find  bliss,  which  here  he  dreamed  ? 
Rest,  which  was  weariness  on  earth  ? 
Knowledge,  which,  if  o'er  life  it  beamed. 
Served  but  to  prove  it  void  of  worth  ? 

Will  he  find  love  without  lust's  leaven, 
Love  fearless,  tearless,  perfect,  pure, 
To  all  with  equal  bounty  given. 
In  all,  unfeigned,  unfailing,  sure  ? 


FRANCES. 

Will  he,  from  penal  sufferings  free, 
Released  from  shroud  and  wormy  clod, 
All  calm  and  glorious,  rise  and  see 
Creation's  Sire — Existence'  God  ? 

Then,  glancing  back  on  Time's  brief  woes, 
Will  he  behold  them,  fading,  fly ; 
Swept  from  Eternity's  repose. 
Like  sullying  cloud,  from  pure  blue  sky  ? 

If  so — endure,  my  weary  frame  ; 
And  when  thy  anguish  strikes  too  deep, 
And  when  all  troubled  burns  life's  flame, 
Think  of  the  quiet,  final  sleep  ; 

Think  of  the  glorious  waking-hour. 
Which  will  not  dawn  on  grief  and  tears, 
iBut  on  a  ransomed  spirit's  power, 
Certain,  and  free  from  mortal  fears. 

Seek  now  thy  couch,  and  lie  till  morn. 
Then  from  thy  chamber,  calm,  descend. 
With  mind  nor  tossed,  nor  anguish-torn, 
But  tranquil,  fixed,  to  wait  the  end. 

And  when  thy  opening  eyes  shall  see 
Mementos,  on  the  chamber  wall, 
Of  one  who  has  forgotten  thee. 
Shed  not  the  tear  of  acrid  gall. 


64  FRANCES. 

The  tear  which,  welling  from  the  heart. 
Burns  where  its  drop  corrosive  falls, 
And  makes  each  nerve,  in  torture,  start 
At  feelings  it  too  well  recalls : 

When  the  sweet  hope  of  being  loved. 
Threw  Eden  sunshine  on  life's  way ; 
When  every  sense  and  feeling  proved 
Expectancy  of  brightest  day. 

When  the  hand  trembled  to  receive 
A  thrilling  clasp,  which  seemed  so  near. 
And  the  heart  ventured  to  believe. 
Another  heart  esteemed  it  dear.  .^ 

When  words,  half  love,  all  tenderness. 
Were  hourly  heard,  as  hourly  spoken. 
When  the  long,  sunny  days  of  bliss, 
Only  by  moonlight  nights  were  broken. 

Till  drop  by  drop,  the  cup  of  joy 
Filled  full,  with  purple  light,  was  glowing, 
And  Faith,  which  watched  it,  sparkling  high. 
Still  never  dreamt  the  overflowing. 

It  fell  not  with  a  sudden  crashing. 
It  poured  not  out  like  open  sluice  ; 
No,  sparkling  still,  and  redly  flashing. 
Drained,  drop  by  drop,  the  generous  juice. 


65 


I  saw  it  sink,  and  strove  to  taste  it, 
My  eager  lips  approached  the  brim  ; 
The  movement  only  seemed  to  waste  it, 
It  sank  to  dregs,  all  harsh  and  dim. 

These  I  have  drank,  and  they  for  ever 
Have  poisoned  life  and  love  for  me  ; 
A  draught  from  Sodom's  lake  could  never 
More  fiery,  salt,  and  bitter,  be. 

Oh  !  Love  was  all  a  thin  illusion  ; 
Joy,  but  the  desert's  flying  stream  ; 
And,  glancing  back  on  long  delusion. 
My  memory  grasps  a  hollow  dream. 

Yet,  whence  that  wondrous  change  of  feeling, 
I  never  knew,  and  cannot  learn. 
Nor  why  ray  lover's  eye,  congeahng. 
Grew  cold,  and  clouded,  proud,  and  stern. 

Nor  wherefore,  friendship's  forms  forgetting, 
He  careless  left,  and  cool  withdrew ; 
Nor  spoke  of  grief,  nor  fond  regretting, 
Nor  even  one  glance  of  comfort  threw. 

And  neither  word  nor  token  sending, 
Of  kindness,  since  the  parting  day. 
His  course,  for  distant  regions  bending, 
Went,  self-contained  and  calm,  away. 


bb  FRANCES. 

Oh,  bitter,  blighting,  keen  sensation, 
Which  will  not  weaken,  cannot  die. 
Hasten  thy  work  of  desolation. 
And  let  my  tortured  spirit  fly ! 

Vain  as  the  passing  gale,  my  crying : 
Though  lightning-struck,  I  must  live  on ; 
I  know,  at  heart,  there  is  no  dying 
Of  love,  and  ruined  hope,  alone. 

Still  strong,  and  young,  and  warm  with  vigour. 
Though  scathed,  I  long  shall  greenly  grow, 
And  many  a  storm  of  wildest  rigour 
Shall  yet  break  o'er  my  shivered  bough. 

Rebellious  now  to  blank  inertion. 
My  unused  strength  demands  a  task  ; 
Travel,  and  toil,  and  full  exertion, 
Are  the  last,  only  boon  I  ask. 

Whence,  then,  this  vain  and  barren  dreaming 
Of  death,  and  dubious  life  to  come  ? 
I  see  a  nearer  beacon  gleaming 
Over  dejection's  sea  of  gloom. 

The  very  wildness  of  my  sorrow 
Tells  me  I  yet  have  innate  force ; 
My  track  of  life  has  been  too  narrow, 
EflTort  shall  trace  a  broader  course. 


FRANCES.  67 

The  world  is  not  in  yonder  tower, 
Earth  is  not  prisoned  in  that  room, 
'Mid  whose  dark  pannels,  hour  by  hour, 
I've  sat,  the  slave  and  prey  of  gloom. 

One  feeling — turned  to  utter  anguish. 
Is  not  my  being's  only  aim ; 
When,  lorn  and  loveless,  life  will  languish. 
But  courage  can  revive  the  flame. 

He,  when  he  left  me,  went  a  roving 
To  sunny  climes,  beyond  the  sea  ; 
And  I,  the  weight  of  woe  removing. 
Am  free  and  fetterless  as  he. 

New  scenes,  new  language,  skies  less  clouded, 
May  once  more  wake  the  wish  to  live ; 
Strange,  foreign  towns,  astir,  and  crowded. 
New  pictures  to  the  mind  may  give. 

New  forms  and  faces,  passing  ever. 
May  hide  the  one  I  still  retain. 
Defined,  and  fixed,  and  fading  never. 
Stamped  deep  on  vision,  heart,  and  brain. 

And  we  might  meet — time  may  have  changed  him ; 
Chance  may  reveal  the  mystery. 
The  secret  influence  which  estranged  him  ; 
Love  may  restore  him  yet  to  me. 


68  ANTICIPATION. 

False  thought — false  hope — in  scorn  be  banished  ! 
I  am  not  loved — ^nor  loved  have  been ; 
Recall  not,  then,  the  dreams  scarce  vanished, 
Traitors  !  mislead  me  not  again  ! 

To  words  like  yours  I  bid  defiance, 
'Tis  such  my  mental  wreck  have  made  ; 
Of  God  alone,  and  self-reliance, 
I  ask  for  solace — hope  for  aid. 

Morn  comes — and  ere  meridian  glory 
O'er  these,  my  natal  woods,  shall  smile, 
Both  lonely  wood  and  mansion  hoary 
I'll  leave  behind,  full  many  a  mile. 

CURRER. 


ANTICIPATION. 

How  beautiful  the  earth  is  still. 
To  thee — how  full  of  happiness  ! 
How  little  fraught  with  real  ill, 
Or  unreal  phantoms  of  distress  ! 
How  spring  can  bring  thee  glory,  yet, 
And  summer  win  thee  to  forget 


ANTICIPATION.  (W 

December's  sullen  time ! 
Why  dost  thou  hold  the  treasure  fast, 
Of  youth's  delight,  when  youth  is  past. 
And  thou  art  near  thy  prime  ? 

When  those  who  were  thy  own  compeers, 

Equals  in  fortune  and  in  years, 

Have  seen  their  morning  melt  in  tears. 

To  clouded,  smileless  day  ; 
Blest,  had  they  died  untried  and  young. 
Before  their  hearts  went  wandering  wrong. 
Poor  slaves,  subdued  by  passions  strong, 

A  weak  and  helpless  prey  ? 

"  Because,  I  hoped  while  they  enjoyed. 
And,  by  fulfilment,  hope  destroyed ; 
As  children  hope,  with  trustful  breast, 
I  waited  bliss — and  cherished  rest. 
A  thoughtful  spirit  taught  me,  soon. 
That  we  must  long  till  life  be  done  ; 
That  every  phase  of  earthly  joy 
Must  always  fade,  and  always  cloy  : 

This  I  foresaw — and  would  not  chase 

The  fleeting  treacheries  ; 
But,  with  firm  foot  and  tranquil  face. 
Held  backward  from  that  tempting  race. 
Gazed  o'er  the  sands  the  waves  efface, 

To  the  enduring  seas — 


70  ANTICIPATION. 

There  cast  my  anchor  of  desire 
Deep  in  unknown  eternity ; 
Nor  ever  let  my  spirit  tire, 
With  looking  for  what  is  to  be! 

It  is  hope's  spell  that  glorifies, 
Like  youth,  to  my  maturer  eyes, 
All  Nature's  milHon  mysteries. 

The  fearful  and  the  fair — 
Hope  soothes  me  in  the  griefs  I  know ; 
She  lulls  my  pain  for  others'  woe. 
And  makes  me  strong  to  undergo 

What  I  am  born  to  bear. 

Glad  comforter !  will  I  not  brave, 
Unawed,  the  darkness  of  the  grave  ? 
Nay,  smile  to  hear  Death's  billows  rave — 

Sustained,  my  guide,  by  thee  ? 
The  more  unjust  seems  present  fate. 
The  more  my  spirit  swells  elate. 
Strong,  in  my  strength  to  anticipate 

Rewarding  destiny!" 


Ellis. 


71 


STANZAS. 

Oh,  weep  not,  love  !  each  tear  that  springs 

In  those  dear  eyes  of  thine, 
To  me  a  keener  suffering  brings, 

Than  if  they  flowed  from  mine. 

And  do  not  droop  !  however  drear 

The  fate  awaiting  thee  ; 
For  my  sake  combat  pain  and  care, 

And  cherish  life  for  me  ! 

I  do  not  fear  thy  love  will  fail ; 

Thy  faith  is  true,  I  know  ; 
But,  oh,  my  love  !  thy  strength  is  frail 

For  such  a  life  of  woe. 

Were  't  not  for  this,  I  well  could  trace 
( Though  banished  long  from  thee,) 

Life's  rugged  path,  and  boldly  face 
The  storms  that  threatened  me. 

Fear  not  for  me — I've  steeled  my  mind 

Sorrow  and  strife  to  greet ; 
Joy  with  my  love  I  leave  behind. 

Care  with  my  friends  I  meet. 


72  GILBERT. 

A  mother's  sad  reproachful  eye, 
A  father's  scowHng  brow — 

But  he  may  frown  and  she  may  sigh : 
I  will  not  break  my  vow  ! 

I  love  my  mother,  I  revere 
My  sire,  but  fear  not  me — 

Beheve  that  Death  alone  can  tear 
This  faithful  heart  from  thee. 


Acton. 


GILBERT. 
I. 

THE    GARDEN. 


Above  the  city  hung  the  moon, 

Right  o'er  a  plot  of  ground 
Where  flowers  and  orchard-trees  were  fenced 

With  lofty  walls  around : 
'Twas  Gilbert's  garden — ^there,  to-night 

Awhile  he  walked  alone  ; 
And,  tired  with  sedentary  toil, 

Mused  where  the  moonHght  shone. 


GILBERT.  73 

This  garden,  in  a  city-heart, 

Lay  still  as  houseless  wild, 
Though  many-windowed  mansion  fronts 

Were  round  it  closely  piled  ; 
But  thick  their  walls,  and  those  within 

Lived  lives  by  noise  unstirred  ; 
Like  wafting  of  an  angel's  wing, 

Time's  flight  by  them  was  heard. 

Some  soft  piano-notes  alone 

Were  sweet  as  faintly  given. 
Where  ladies,  doubtless,  cheered  the  hearth 

With  song,  that  winter-even. 
The  city's  many-mingled  sounds 

Rose  like  the  hum  of  ocean  ; 
They  rather  lulled  the  heart  than  roused 

Its  pulse  to  faster  motion. 

Gilbert  has  paced  the  single  walk 

An  hour,  yet  is  not  weary ; 
And,  though  it  be  a  winter  night. 

He  feels  nor  cold  nor  dreary. 
The  prime  of  life  is  in  his  veins. 

And  sends  his  blood  fast  flowing, 
And  Fancy's  fervour  warms  the  thoughts 

Now  in  his  bosom  glowing. 

Those  thoughts  recur  to  early  love,  ' 

Or  what  he  love  would  name, 


74  GILBERT. 

Though  haply  Gilbert's  secret  deeds 

Might  other  title  claim. 
Such  theme  not  oft  his  mind  absorbs, 

He  to  the  world  clings  fast, 
And  too  much  for  the  present  lives. 

To  linger  o'er  the  past. 

But  now  the  evening's  deep  repose 

Has  glided  to  his  soul ; 
That  moonlight  falls  on  Memory, 

And  shows  her  fading  scroll. 
One  name  appears  in  every  line 

The  gentle  rays  shine  o'er. 
And  still  he  smiles  and  still  repeats 

That  one  name — ^Elinor. 

There  is  no  sorrow  in  his  smile, 

No  kindness  in  his  tone  ; 
The  triumph  of  a  selfish  heart 

Speaks  coldly  there  alone  ; 
He  says  :  "She  loved  me  more  than  life ; 

And  truly  it  was  sweet 
To  see  so  fair  a  woman  kneel, 

In  bondage,  at  my  feet. 

There  was  a  sort  of  quiet  bliss 

To  be  so  deeply  loved, 
To  gaze  on  trembling  eagerness 

And  sit  myself  unmoved. 


GILBERT.  75 

And  when  it  pleased  my  pride  to  grant, 

At  last,  some  rare  caress, 
To  feel  the  fever  of  that  hand 

My  fingers  deigned  to  press. 

'Tvvas  sweet  to  see  her  strive  to  hide 

What  every  glance  revealed  ; 
Endowed,  the  while,  with  despot-might 

Her  destiny  to  wield. 
I  knew  myself  no  perfect  man, 

Nor,  as  she  deemed,  divine  ; 
I  knew  that  I  was  glorious — but 

By  her  reflected  shine  ; 

Her  youth,  her  native  energy, 

Her  powers  new-born  and  fresh, 
'Twas  these  with  Godhead  sanctified 

My  sensual  frame  of  flesh. 
Yet,  like  a  god  did  I  descend 

At  last  to  meet  her  love  ; 
And,  like  a  god,  I  then  withdrew 

To  my  own  heaven  above. 

And  never  more  could  she  invoke 

My  presence  to  her  sphere  ; 
No  prayer,  no  plaint,  no  cry  of  hers 

Could  win  my  awful  ear. 
I  knew  her  blinded  constancy 

Would  ne'er  my  deeds  betray. 


76  GILBERT. 

And,  calm  in  conscience,  whole  in  heart, 
I  went  my  tranquil  way. 

Yet,  sometimes,  I  stillfeel  a  wish, 

The  fond  and  flattering  pain 
Of  passion's  anguish  to  create. 

In  her  young  breast  again. 
Bright  was  the  lustre  of  her  eyes. 

When  they  caught  fire  from  mine  ; 
If  I  had  power — ^this  very  hour, 

Again  I  'd  light  their  shine. 

But  where  she  is,  or  how  she  lives, 

I  have  no  clue  to  know : 
I  've  heard  she  long  my  absence  pined. 

And  left  her  home  in  woe. 
But  busied,  then,  in  gathering  gold. 

As  I  am  busied  now, 
I  could  not  turn  from  such  pursuit. 

To  weep  a  broken  vow. 

Nor  could  I  give  to  fatal  risk 

The  fame  I  ever  prized ; 
Even  now,  I  fear,  that  precious  fame 

Is  too  much  compromised." 
An  inward  trouble  dims  his  eye, 

Some  riddle  he  would  solve  ; 
Some  method  to  unloose  a  knot, 

His  anxious  thoughts  revolve. 


GILBERT.  77 

He,  pensive,  leans  against  a  tree, 

A  leafy  evergreen, 
The  boughs,  the  moonlight,  intercept. 

And  hide  him  like  a  screen ; 
He  starts — the  tree  shakes  with  his  tremor, 

Yet  nothing  near  him  pass'd. 
He  hurries  up  the  garden  alley. 

In  strangely  sudden  haste. 

With  shaking  hand,  he  lifts  the  latchet. 

Steps  o'er  the  threshold  stone  ; 
The  heavy  door  slips  from  his  fingers. 

It  shuts,  and  he  is  gone. 
What  touched,  transfixed,  appalled,  his  soul  ? 

A  nervous  thought,  no  more ; 
'Twill  sink  like  stone  in  placid  pool. 

And  calm  close  smoothly  o'er. 


II. 

THE    PARLOUR. 

Warm  is  the  parlour  atmosphere, 

Serene  the  lamp's  soft  light ; 
The  vivid  embers,  red  and  clear, 

Proclaim  a  frosty  night. 
Books,  varied,  on  the  table  lie, 

Three  children  o'er  them  bend, 
And  all,  with  curious,  eager  eye, 

The  turning  leaf  attend. 


78 


Picture  and  tale  alternately 

Their  simple  hearts  delight, 
And  interest  deep,  and  tempered  glee, 

Illume  their  aspects  bright ; 
The  parents,  from  their  fireside  place. 

Behold  that  pleasant  scene, 
And  joy  is  on  the  mother's  face. 

Pride,  in  the  father's  mien. 

As  Gilbert  sees  his  blooming  wife. 

Beholds  his  children  fair. 
No  thought  has  he  of  transient  strife. 

Or  past,  though  piercing  fear. 
The  voice  of  happy  infancy 

Lisps  sweetly  in  his  ear, 
His  wife,  with  pleased  and  peaceful  eye. 

Sits,  kindly  smiling,  near. 

The  fire  glows  on  her  silken  dress. 

And  shows  its  ample  grace, 
And  warmly  tints  each  hazel  tress. 

Curled  soft  around  her  face. 
The  beauty  that  in  youth  he  wooed. 

Is  beauty  still,  unfaded. 
The  brow  of  ever  placid  mood 

No  churlish  grief  has  shaded. 

Prosperity,  in  Gilbert's  home, 

Abides,  the  guest  of  years  ; 
There  Want  or  Discord  never  come, 

And  seldom  Toil  or  Tears. 


GILBERT.  79 

The  carpets  bear  the  peaceful  print 

Of  comfort's  velvet  tread, 
And  golden  gleams  from  plenty  sent. 

In  every  nook  are  shed. 

The  very  silken  spaniel  seems 

Of  quiet  ease  to  tell, 
As  near  its  mistress'  feet  it  dreams. 

Sunk  in  a  cushion's  swell ; 
And  smiles  seem  native  to  the  eyes 

Of  those  sweet  children,  three  ; 
They  have  but  looked  on  tranquil  skies. 

And  know  not  misery. 

Alas  !  that  misery  should  come 

In  such  an  hour  as  this  ; 
Why  could  she  not  so  calm  a  home 

A  little  longer  miss  ? 
But  she  is  now  within  the  door, 

Her  steps  advancing  glide  ; 
Her  sullen  shade  has  crossed  the  floor. 

She  stands  at  Gilbert's  side. 

She  lays  her  hand  upon  his  heart. 

It  bounds  with  agony ; 
His  fireside  chair  shakes  with  the  start 

That  shook  the  garden  tree. 
His  wife  towards  the  children  looks. 

She  does  not  mark  his  mien ; 
The  children,  bending  o'er  their  books. 

His  terror  have  not  seen. 


80  GILBERT. 

In  his  own  home,  by  his  own  hearth, 

He  sits  in  solitude. 
And  circled  round  with  light  and  mirth. 

Cold  horror  chills  his  blood. 
His  mind  would  hold  with  desperate  clutch 

The  scene  that  round  him  lies ; 
No — changed,  as  by  some  wizard's  touch, 

The  present  prospect  flies. 

A  tumult  vague— a  viewless  strife 

His  futile  struggles  crush  ; 
'Twixt  him  and  his,  an  unknown  life 

And  unknown  feelings  rush. 
He  sees — but  scarce  can  language  paint 

The  tissue  Fancy  weaves  ; 
For  words  oft  give  but  echo  faint 

Of  thoughts  the  mind  conceives. 

Noise,  tumult  strange,  and  darkness  dim. 

Efface  both  light  and  quiet ; 
No  shape  is  in  those  shadows  grim. 

No  voice  in  that  wild  riot. 
Sustained  and  strong,  a  wondrous  blast 

Above  and  round  him  blows  ; 
A  greenish  gloom,  dense  overcast. 

Each  moment  denser  grows. 

He  nothing  knows — nor  clearly  sees. 

Resistance  checks  his  breath. 
The  high,  impetuous,  ceaseless  breeze 

Blows  on  him,  cold  as  death. 


GILBERT.  81 

And  still  the  undulating  gloom 
Mocks  sight  with  formless  motion ; 

Was  such  sensation  Jonah's  doom, 
Gulphed  in  the  depths  of  ocean  ? 

Streaking  the  air,  the  nameless  vision. 

Fast-driven,  deep-sounding,  flows ; 
Oh  !  whence  its  source,  and  what  its  mission  ? 

How  will  its  terrors  close  ? 
T-ong-s weeping,  rushing,  vast  and  void. 

The  Universe  it  swallows  ; 
And  still  the  dark,  devouring  tide, 

A  Typhoon  tempest  follows. 

More  slowly  it  rolls  ;  its  furious  race 

Sinks  to  a  solemn  gliding ; 
The  stunning  roar,  the  wind's  wild  chase, 

To  stillness  are  subsiding. 
And,  slowly  borne  along,  a  form 

The  shapeless  chaos  varies  ; 
Poised  in  the  eddy  to  the  storm. 

Before  the  eye  it  tarries. 

A  woman  drowned — sunk  in  the  deep. 

On  a  long  wave  reclining ; 
The  circling  waters'  crystal  sweep, 

Like  glass,  her  shape  enshrining ; 
Her  pale  dead  face,  to  Gilbert  turned. 

Seems  as  in  sleep  reposing ; 
A  feeble  light,  now  first  discerned, 

The  features  well  disclosing. 


82  GILBERT. 

No  effort  from  the  haunted  air 

The  ghastly  scene  could  banish  ; 
That  hovering  wave,  arrested  there, 

Rolled — throbbed — but  did  not  vanish. 
If  Gilbert  upward  turned  his  gaze. 

He  saw  the  ocean-shadow  ; 
K  he  looked  down,  the  endless  seas 

Lay  green  as  summer  meadow. 

And  straight  before,  the  pale  corpse  lay, 

Upborne  by  air  or  billow. 
So  near,  he  could  have  touched  the  spray 

That  churned  around  its  pillow. 
The  hollow  anguish  of  the  face 

Had  moved  a  fiend  to  sorrow  ; 
Not  Death's  fixed  calm  could  raze  the  trace 

Of  suffering's  deep-worn  furrow. 

All  moved  ;  a  strong  returning  blast. 

The  mass  of  waters  raising. 
Bore  wave  and  passive  carcase  past. 

While  Gilbert  yet  was  gazing. 
Deep  in  her  isle-conceiving  womb. 

It  seemed  the  Ocean  thundered, 
And  soon,  by  realms  of  rushing  gloom> 

Were  seer  and  phantom  sundered. 

Then  swept  some  timbers  from'  a  wreck. 

On  following  surges  riding ; 
Then  sea-weed,  in  the  turbid  rack 

Uptorn,  went  sbwly  gliding. 


GILBERT. 

The  horrid  shade,  by  slow  degrees, 

A  beam  of  light  defeated. 
And  then  the  roar  of  raving  seas. 

Fast,  far,  and  faint,  retreated. 

And  all  was  gone — gone  like  a  mist. 

Corse,  billows,  tempest,  wreck  ; 
Three  children  close  to  Gilbert  prest 

And  clung  around  his  neck. 
Good  night !  good  night !  the  prattlers  said 

And  kissed  their  father's  cheek ; 
'Twas  now  the  hour  their  quiet  bed 

And  placid  rest  to  seek. 

The  mother  with  her  offspring  goes 

To  hear  their  evening  prayer ; 
She  nought  of  Gilbert's  vision  knows, 

And  nought  of  his  despair. 
Yet,  pitying  God,  abridge  the  time 

Of  anguish,  now  his  fate  ! 
Though,  haply,  great  has  been  his  crime 

Thy  mercy,  too,  is  great. 

Gilbert,  at  length,  uplifts  his  head. 

Bent  for  some  moments  low. 
And  there  is  neither  grief  nor  dread 

Upon  his  subtle  brow. 
For  well  can  he  his  feehngs  task, 

And  well  his  looks  command ; 
His  features  well  his  heart  can  mask, 

With  smiles  and  smoothness  bland 


84  GILBERT. 

Gilbert  has  reasoned  with  his  mind — 

He  says  'twas  all  a  dream  ; 
He  strives  his  inward  sig-ht  to  blind 

Against  truth's  inward  beam. 
He  pitied  not  that  shadowy  thing. 

When  it  was  flesh  and  blood  ; 
Nor  now  can  pity's  balmy  spring 

Refresh  his  arid  mood. 

"And  if  that  dream  has  spoken  truth/' 

Thus  musingly  he  says  ; 
"  If  Elinor  be  dead,  in  sooth, 

Such  chance  the  shock  repays : 
A  net  was  woven  round  my  feet, 

I  scarce  could  further  go. 
Ere  Shame  had  forced  a  fast  retreat. 

Dishonour  brought  me  low. 

"Conceal  her,  then,  deep,  silent  Sea, 

Give  her  a  secret  grave  ! 
She  sleeps  in  peace,  and  I  am  free. 

No  longer  Terror's  slave  : 
And  homage  still,  from  all  the  world. 

Shall  greet  my  spotless  name, 
Since  surges  break  and  waves  are  curled 

Above  its  threatened  shame." 


GILBERT.  85 

III. 
THE    WELCOME    HOME. 

Above  the  city  hangs  the  moon, 

Some  clouds  are  boding  rain, 
Gilbert,  erewhile  on  journey  gone, 

To-night  comes  home  again. 
Ten  years  have  passed  above  his  head. 

Each  year  has  brought  him  gain ; 
His  prosperous  life  has  smoothly  sped, 

Without  or  tear  or  stain. 

'Tis  somewhat  late — the  city  clocks 

Twelve  deep  vibrations  toll. 
As  Gilbert  at  the  portal  knocks, 
'     Which  is  his  journey's  goal. 
The  street  is  still  and  desolate. 

The  moon  hid  by  a  cloud ; 
Gilbert,  impatient  will  not  wait, — 

His  second  knock  peals  loud. 

The  clocks  are  hushed ;  there's  not  a  light 

In  any  window  nigh. 
And  not  a  single  planet  bright 

Looks  from  the  clouded  sky ; 
The  air  is  raw,  the  rain  descends, 

A  bitter  north-wind  blows  ; 
His  cloak  the  traveller  scarce  defends — 

Will  not  the  door  unclose  ? 
6 


86  GILBERT. 

He  knocks  the  third  time,  and  the  last ; 

His  summons  now  they  hear, 
Within,  a  footstep,  hurrying  fast, 

Is  heard  approaching  near. 
The  bolt  is  drawn,  the  clanking  chain 

Falls  to  the  floor  of  stone  ; 
And  Gilbert  to  his  heart  will  strain 

His  wife  and  children  soon. 

The  hand  that  lifts  the  latchet,  holds 

A  candle  to  his  sight, 
And  Gilbert,  on  the  step,  beholds 

A  woman,  clad  in  white. 
Lo  !  water  from  her  dripping  dress 

Runs  on  the  streaming  floor ; 
From  every  dark  and  clinging  tress. 

The  drops  incessant  pour. 

There's  none  but  her  to  welcome  him ; 

She  holds  the  candle  high. 
And,  motionless  in  form  and  limb. 

Stands  cold  and  silent  nigh  ; 
There's  sand  and  sea-weed  on  her  robe. 

Here  hollow  eyes  are  blind  ; 
>No  pulse  in  such  a  frame  can  throb, 

No  life  is  there  defined. 

Gilbert  turned  ashy-white,  but  still 
His  lips  vouchsafed  no  cry ; 

He  spurred  his  strength  and  master-will 
To  pass  the  figure  by, — 


GILBERT.  87 

But,  moving  slow,  it  faced  him  straight, 

It  would  not  flinch  nor  quail : 
Then  first  did  Gilbert's  strength  abate, 

His  stony  firmness  quail. 

He  sank  upon  his  knees  and  prayed  ; 

The  shape  stood  rigid  there ; 
He  called  aloud  for  human  aid. 

No  human  aid  was  near. 
An  accent  strange  did  thus  repeat 

Heaven's  stern  but  just  decree  : 
"The  measure  thou  to  her  didst  mete. 

To  thee  shall  measured  be  !" 

Gilbert  sprang  from  his  bended  knees. 

By  the  pale  spectre  pushed. 
And,  wild  as  one  whom  demons  seize. 

Up  the  hall-staircase  rushed  ; 
Entered  his  chamber — near  the  bed 

Sheathed  steel  and  fire-arms  hung — 
Impelled  by  maniac  purpose  dread. 

He  chose  those  stores  among. 

Across  his  throat,  a  keen-edged  knife 

With  vigorous  hand  he  drew ; 
The  wound  was  wide — his  outraged  life 

Rushed  rash  and  redly  through. 
And  thus  died,  by  a  shameful  death, 

A  wise  and  worldly  man. 
Who  never  drew  but  selfish  breath 

Since  first  his  life  began, 

CURRER. 


88 


THE  PRISONER. 


A    FRAGMENT. 


In  the  dungeon-crypts,  idly  did  I  stray, 
Reckless  of  the  lives  wasting  there  away ; 
"  Draw  the  ponderous  bars  !  open,  Warder  stem  !" 
He  dared  not  say  me  nay — the  hinges  harshly  turn. 

"  Our  guests  are  darkly  lodged,"  I  whisper'd,  gazing 

through 
The  vault,  whose  grated  eye  showed  heaven  more 

grey  than  blue ; 
(This  was  when  glad  spring  laughed  in  awaking 

pride ;) 
"  Aye,  darkly  lodged  enough  !"  returned  my  sullen 

guide. 

Then,  God  forgive  my  youth ;  forgive  my  careless 

tongue ; 
I  scoffed,  as  the  chill  chains  on  the  damp  flag-stones 

rung: 
"  Confined  in  triple  walls,  art  thou  so  much  to  fear. 
That  we  must  bind  thee  down  and  clench  thy  fetters 

here  ?" 

The  captive  raised  her  face,  it  was  as  soft  and  mild 
As  sculptured  marble  saint,  or  slumbering  unwean'd 
child ; 


THE    PRISONER.  »y 

It  was  so  soft  and  mild,  it  was  so  sweet  and  fair, 
Pain  could  not  trace  a  line,  nor  grief  a  shadow 
there ! 

The  captive  raised  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  her 
brow ; 

"I  have  been  struck,"  she  said,  "and  I  am  suffer- 
ing now ; 

Yet  these  are  little  worth,  your  bolts  and  irons 
strong, 

And,  were  they  forged  in  steel,  they  could  not  hold 
me  long." 

Hoarse  laughed  the  jailor  grim :  "  Shall  I  be  won  to 

hear; 
Dost  think,  fond,  dreaming   wretch,  that  /  shall 

grant  thy  prayer  ? 
Or,  better  still,  wilt  melt  my  master's  heart  with 

groans  ? 
Ah !  sooner  might  the  sun  thaw  down  these  granite 

stones. 

"'My  master's  voice  is  low,  his  aspect  bland  and  kind. 
But  hard  as  hardest  flint,  the  soul  that  lurks  behind  ; 
And  I  am  rough  and  rude,  yet  not  more  rough  to  see 
Than  is  the  hidden  ghost  that  has  its  home  in  me." 

About  her  lips  there  played  a  smile  of  almost  scorn, 
"  My  friend,"  she  gently  said,  "  you  have  not  heard 
me  mourn ; 


90  THE    PRISONER. 

When  you  my  kindred's  lives,  my  lost  life,  can  .re- 
store, 

Then  may  I  weep  and  sue, — ^but  never,  friend, 
before ! 

Still,  let  my  tyrants  know,  I  am  not  doomed  to  wear 
Year  after  year  in  gloom,  and  desolate  despair ; 
A  messenger  of  Hope,  comes  every  night  to  me. 
And  offers  for  short  life,  eternal  liberty. 

He   comes   with   western   winds,   with    evening's 

wandering  airs. 
With  that  clear  dusk  of  heaven  that  brings  the 

thickest  stars. 
Winds  take  a  pensive  tone,  and  stars  a  tender  fire, 
And  visions  rise,  and  change,  that  kill  me  with 

desire. 

Desire  for  nothing  known  in  my  maturer  years. 
When  Joy  grew  mad  with  awe,  at  counting  future 

tears. 
When,  if  my  spirit's  sky  was  fall  of  flashes  warm, 
I  knew  not  whence  they  came,  from  sun,  or  thunder 

storm. 

But,  first,   a   hush   of   peace — a    soundless   calm 

descends  ; 
The  struggle  of  distress,  and  fierce  impatience  ends. 
Mute  music  soothes  my  breast,  unuttered  harmony. 
That  I  could  never  dream,  till  Earth  was  lost  to  me. 


THE    PRISONER.  91 

-Then  dawns  the  Invisible ;   the   Unseen  its  truth 

reveals ; 
My  outward  sense  is  gone,  my  inward  essence  feels : 
Its  wings  are  almost  free — its  home,  its  harbour 

found, 
Measuring  the  gulf,  it  stoops,  and  dares  the  final 

bound. 

Oh,  dreadful  is  the  check — intense  the  agony — 
When  the  ear  begins  to  hear,  and  the  eye  begins 

to  see  ; 
When  the  pulse  begins  to  throb,  the  brain  to  think 

again. 
The  soul  to  feel  the  flesh,  and  the  flesh  to  feel  the 

chain. 

Yet  I  would  lose  no  sting,  would  wish  no  torture  less, 
The  m.ore  that  anguish   racks,  the  earlier  it  will 

bless  ; 
And  robed  in  fires  of  hell,  or  bright  with  heavenly 

shine. 
If  it  but  herald  death,  the  vision  is  divine  !" 

She  ceased  to  speak,  and  we,  unanswering,  turned 

to  go— 
We  had  no  further  power  to  work  the  captive  woe  ; 
Her  cheek,  her  gleaming  eye,  declared  that  man  had 

given  • 

A  sentence,  unapproved,  and  overruled  by  Heaven. 

Ellis. 


92 


IF  THIS  BE  ALL. 

O  God  !  if  this  indeed  be  ail 
Tliat  Life  can  show  to  me  ; 

If  on  my  aching  brow  may  fall 
No  freshening  dew  from  Thee, — 

If  with  no  brighter  light  than  this 
The  lamp  of  hope  may  glow, 

And  I  may  only  dream  of  bliss, 
And  wake  to  weary  woe ; 

If  friendship's  solace  must  decay. 
When  other  joys  are  gone, 

And  love  must  keep  so  far  away. 
While  I  go  wandering  on, — 

Wandering  and  toihng  without  gain. 

The  slave  of  others'  will. 
With  constant  care,  and  frequent  pain. 

Despised,  forgotten  still ; 

Grieving  to  look  on  vice  and  sin. 

Yet  powerless  to  quell 
The  silent  current  from  within. 

The  outward  torrent's  swell : 


LIFE.  98 


While  all  the  good  I  would  impart, 
The  feelings  I  would  share, 

Are  driven  backward  to  my  heart. 
And  turned  to  wormwood,  there  ; 

If  clouds  must  ever  keep  from  sight 

The  glories  of  the  Sun, 
And  I  must  suffer  winter's  bHght, 

Ere  summer  is  begun  ; 

If  Life  must  be  so  full  of  care. 
Then  call  me  soon  to  Thee ; 

Or  give  me  strength  enough  to  bear 
My  load  of  misery. 


Acton. 


LIFE. 


Life,  beheve,  is  not  a  dream  > 

So  dark  as  sages  say  ;  \ 

Oft  a  little  morning  rain  I 

Foretells  a  pleasant  day.  1 

Sometimes  there  are  clouds  of  gloom,  \ 

But  these  are  transient  all ;  i 
If  the  shower  will  make  the  roses  bloom, 

O  why  lament  its  fall  ?  J 

,     f]  ^ 

7liuAA  ^<^    /^...o  .>^.^.^^  ^^U^    ^ 


94 


Rapidly,  merrily, 
Life's  sunny  hours  flit  by, 

Gratefully,  cheerily. 
Enjoy  them  as  they  fly  ! 

What  though  Death  at  times  steps  in. 

And  calls  our  Best  away  ? 
What  though  sorrow  seems  to  win. 

O'er  hope,  a  heavy  sway  ? 
Yet  hope  again  elastic  springs, 

Unconquered,  thaugh  she  fell ; 
Still  buoyant  are  her  golden  wings. 
Still  strong  to  bear  us  well.  / 
Manfully,  fearlessly. 
The  day  of  trial  bear. 

For  gloriously,  victoriously, 
Can  courage  quell  despair ! 


CURRER. 


HOPE. 


Hope  was  but  a  timid  friend ; 

She  sat  without  the  grated  den. 
Watching  how  my  fate  would  tend. 

Even  as  selfish-hearted  men. 


MEMORY.  96 

She  was  cruel  in  her  fear ; 

Through  the  bars,  one  dreary  day, 
I  looked  out  to  see  her  there. 

And  she  turned  her  face  away ! 

Like  a  false  guard,  false  watch  keeping, 
Still,  in  strife,  she  whispered  peace ; 

She  would  sing  while  I  was  weeping ; 
If  I  listened,  she  would  cease. 

False  she  was,  and  unrelenting  ; 

When  my  last  joys  strewed  the  ground, 
Even  Sorrow  saw,  repenting. 

Those  sad  relics  scattered  round  ; 

Hope,  whose  whisper  would  have  given 

Balm  to  all  my  phrenzied  pain. 
Stretched  her  wings,  and  soared  to  heaven, 

Went,  and  ne'er  returned  again ! 

Ellis. 


MEMORY. 


Brightly  the  sun  of  summer  shone. 
Green  fields  and  waving  woods  upon, 
And  soft  winds  wandered  by ; 


96  MEMORY. 

Above,  a  sky  of  purest  blue, 
Around,  bright  flowers  of  loveliest  hue, 
Allured  the  gazer's  eye. 

But  what  were  all  these  charms  to  me, 
When  one  sweet  breath  of  memory 

Came  gently  wafting  by  ? 
I  closed  my  eyes  against  the  day, 
;   And  called  my  wilhng  soul  away, 

From  earth,  and  air,  and  sky ; 

That  I  might  simply  fancy  there 
One  little  flower — a  primrose  fair, 

Just  opening  into  sight ; 
As  in  the  days  of  infancy, 
An  opening  primrose  seemed  to  me 

A  source  of  strange  delight. 

Sweet  Memory !  ever  smile  on  me  ; 
Nature's  chief  beauties  spring  from  thee  ; 

Oh,  still  thy  tribute  bring ! 
Still  make  the  golden  crocus  shine 
Among  the  flowers  the  most  divine. 

The  glory  of  the  spring. 

Still  in  the  wall-flower's  fragrance  dwell ; 
And  hover  round  the  slight  blue  bell, 
My  childhood's  darhng  flower. 


97 


Smile  on  the  little  daisy  still, 
The  buttercup's  bright  goblet  fill 
With  all  thy  former  power. 

For  ever  hang  thy  dreamy  spell 
Round  mountain  star  and  heather  bell 

And  do  not  pass  away 
From  sparkhng  frost,  or  wreathed  snow, 
And  whisper  when  the  wild  winds  blow, 

Or  rippling  waters  play. 

Is  childhood,  then,  so  all-divine  ? 
Or  Memory,  is  the  glory  thine, 

That  haloes  thus  the  past  ? 
Not  all  divine  ;  its  pangs  of  grief, 
(Although,  perchance,  their  stay  be  brief,) 

Are  bitter  while  they  last. 

'  Nor  is  the  glory  all  thine  own. 
For  on  our  earliest  joys  alone 

That  holy  light  is  cast. 
With  such  a  ray  no  spell  of  thine 
Can  make  our  later  pleasures  shine, 
I    Though  long  ago  they  passed. 


Acton. 


98 


THE  LETTER. 

What  is *she  writing?     Watch  her  now, 

How  fast  her  fingers  move  ! 
How  eagerly  her  youthful  brow 

Is  bent  in  thought  above ! 
Her  long  curls,  drooping,  shade  the  light, 

She  puts  them  quick  aside. 
Nor  knows,  that  band  of  crystals  bright, 

Her  hasty  touch  untied. 
It  slips  adown  her  silken  dress, 

Falls  glittering  at  her  feet ; 
Unmarked  it  falls,  for  she  no  less 

Pursues  her  labour  sweet. 

The  very  loveliest  hour  that  shines. 

Is  in  that  deep  blue  sky ; 
The  golden  sun  of  June  declines, 

It  has  not  caught  her  eye. 
The  cheerful  lawn,  and  unclosed  gate. 

The  white  road,  far  away. 
In  vain  for  her  light  footsteps  wait, 

She  comes  not  forth  to-day. 
There  is  an  open  door  of  glass 

Close  by  that  lady's  chair. 
From  thence,  to  slopes  of  mossy  grass, 

Descends  a  marble  stair. 


THE   LETTER. 

Tall  plants  of  bright  and  spicy  bloom 

Around  the  threshold  grow  ; 
Their  leaves  and  blossoms  shade  the  room, 

From  that  sun's  deepening  glow. 
Why  does  she  not  a  moment  glance 

Between  the  clustering  flowers, 
And  mark  in  heaven  the  radiant  dance 

Of  evening's  rosy  hours  ? 
O  look  again  !  Still  fixed  her  eye, 

Unsmiling,  earnest,  still. 
And  fast  her  pen  and  fingers  fly. 

Urged  by  her  eager  will. 

Her  soul  is  in  th'  absorbing  task ; 

To  whom,  then,  doth  she  write  ? 
Nay,  watch  her  still  more  closely,  ask 

Her  own  eyes'  serious  light ; 
Where  do  they  turn,  as  now  her  pen 

Hangs  o'er  th'  unfinished  line  ? 
Whence  fell  the  tearful  gleam  that  then 

Did  in  their  dark  spheres  shine  ? 
The  summer-parlour  looks  so  dark. 

When  from  that  sky  you  turn. 
And  from  th'  expanse  of  that  green  park 

You  scarce  may  aught  discern. 

Yet  o'er  the  piles  of  porcelain  rare. 
O'er  flower-stand,  couch,  and  vase. 

Sloped,  as  if  leaning  on  the  air. 
One  picture  meets  the  gaze. 


100  THE    LETTER. 

'Tis  there  she  turns  ;  you  may  not  see 

Distinct,  what  form  defines 
The  clouded  mass  of  mystery 

Yon  broad  gold  frame  confines. 
But  look  again ;  inured  to  shade 

Your  eyes  now  faintly  trace 
A  stalwart  form,  a  massive  head, 

A  firm,  determined  face. 

Black  Spanish  locks,  a  sunburnt  cheek, 

A  brow,  high,  broad  and  white. 
Where  every  furrow  seems  to  speak 

Of  mind  and  moral  might. 
Is  that  her  god  ?  I  cannot  tell ; 

Her  eye  a  moment  met 
Th'  impending  picture,  then  it  fell 

Darkened  and  dimmed  and  wet. 
A  moment  more,  her  task  is  done, 

And  sealed  the  letter  lies  ; 
And  now,  towards  the  setting  sun 

She  turns  her  tearful  eyes. 

Tho3e  tears  flow  over,  wonder  not. 

For  by  the  inscription,  see 
In  what  a  strange  and  distant  spot 

Her  heart  of  hearts  must  be  ! 
Three  seas  and  many  a  league  of  land 

That  letter  must  pass  o'er. 
E'er  read  by  him  to  whose  loved  hand 

'Tis  sent  from  England's  shore. 


A   DAY-DREAM.  101 


Remote  colonial  wilds  detain 

Her  husband,  loved  though  stem ; 

She  'mid  that  smiling  English  scene, 
Weeps  for  his  wished  return. 


CuRRER. 


A  DAY-DREAM. 

On  a  sunny  brae,  alone  I  lay- 
One  summer  afternoon ; 

It  was  the  marriage-time  of  May 
With  her  young  lover  June. 

From  her  mother's  heart,  seemed  loath  to  part 

That  queen  of  bridal  charms. 
But  her  father  smiled  on  the  fairest  child 

He  ever  held  in  his  arms. 

The  trees  did  wave  their  plumy  crests, 

The  glad  birds  caroled  clear ; 
And  I,  of  all  the  wedding  guests, 

Was  only  sullen  there  ! 

There  was  not  one,  but  wished  to  shun 

My  aspect  void  of  cheer ; 
The  very  grey  rocks,  looking  on. 

Asked,  "  What  do  you  do  here  ?" 

5*      ' 


102  A   DAY-DREAM. 

And  I  could  utter  no  reply ; 

In  sooth,  I  did  not  know 
Why  I  had  brought  a  clouded  eye 

To  greet  the  general  glow. 

So,  resting  on  a  heathy  bank, 

I  took  my  heart  to  me  ; 
And  we  together  sadly  sank 

Into  a  reverie. 

We  thought,  "  When  winter  comes  again. 
Where  will  these  bright  things  be  ? 

All  vanished,  like  a  vision  vain, 
An  unreal  mockery ! 

The  birds  that  now  so  bhthely  sing, 

Through  deserts,  frozen  dry, 
Poor  spectres  of  the  perished  spring, 

In  famished  troops,  will  fly. 

And  why  should  we  be  glad  at  all  ? 

The  leaf  is  hardly  green. 
Before  a  token  of  its  fall 

Is  on  the  surface  seen !" 

Now,  whether  it  were  really  so, 

I  never  could  be  sure  ; 
But  as  in  fit  of  peevish  woe, 

I  stretched  me  on  the  moor, 


A   DAY-DREAM.  103 

A  thousand  thousand  gleaming  fires 

Seemed  kindling  in  the  air ; 
A  thousand  thousand  silvery  lyres 

Resound  far  and  near : 

Methought,  the  very  breath  I  breathed 

Was  full  of  sparks  divine, 
And  all  my  heather-couch  was  wreathed 

By  that  celestial  shine  ! 

And,  while  the  wide  earth  echoing  rung 

To  their  strange  minstrelsy. 
The  little  glittering  spirits  sung, 

Or  seemed  to  sing,  to  me  : 

"  O  mortal !  mortal !  let  them  die  ; 

Let  time  and  tears  destroy. 
That  we  may  overflow  the  sky  • 

With  universal  joy ! 

Let  grief  distract  the  sufferer's  breast. 

And  night  obscure  his  way  ; 
They  hasten  him  to  endless  rest. 

And  everlasting  day. 

To  thee  the  world  is  like  a  tomb, 

A  desert's  naked  shore  ; 

To  us,  in  unimagined  bloom, 

\^     It  brightens  more  and  more  ! 


104  TO   COWPER. 

And,  could  we  lift  the  veil,  and  give 
One  brief  glimpse  to  thine  eye. 

Thou  wouldst  rejoice  for  those  that  live, 
Because  they  live  to  die." 

The  music  ceased ;  the  noonday  dream. 
Like  dream  of  night,  withdrew  ; 

But  Fancy,  still,  will  sometimes  deem 
Her  fond  creation  true. 


Ellis. 


TO  COWPER. 

Sweet  are  thy  strains,  celestial  Bard ; 

And  oft,  in  childhood's  years, 
Fve  read  them  o'er  and  o'er  again, 

With  flood  of  silent  tears. 

The  language  of  my  inmost  heart, 

I  traced  in  every  line  ; 
My  sins,  my  sorrows,  hopes,  and  fears, 

Were  there — and  only  mine. 

All  for  myself  the  sigh  would  swell. 
The  tear  of  anguish  start ; 


TO   COWPER.  169 

I  little  knew  what  wilder  woe 
Had  filled  the  Poet's  heart. 

I  did  not  know  the  nights  of  gloom, 

The  days  of  misery ; 
The  long,  long  years  of  dark  despair, 

That  crushed  and  tortured  thee. 

But,  they  are  gone  ;  from  earth  at  length 

Thy  gentle  soul  is  pass'd. 
And  in  the  bosom  of  its  God 

Has  found  its  home  at  last. 

It  must  be  so,  if  God  is  love. 

And  answers  fervent  prayer ; 
Then  surely  thou  shalt  dwell  on  high, 

And  1  may  meet  thee  there. 

Is  he  the  source  of  every  good. 

The  spring  of  purity  ? 
Then  in  thine  hours  of  deepest  woe. 

Thy  God  was  still  with  thee. 

How  else,  when  every  hope  was  fled, 

Couldst  thou  so  fondly  cling 
To  holy  things  and  holy  men  ? 

And  how  so  sweetly  sing. 

Of  things  that  God  alone  could  teach  ? 
And  whence  that  purity. 


106  REGRET. 

That  hatred  of  all  sinful  ways — 
That  gentle  charity  ? 

Are  these  the  symptoms  of  a  heart 
Of  heavenly  grace  bereft : 

For  ever  banished  from  its  God, 
To  Satan's  fury  left  ? 

Yet,  should  thy  darkest  fears  be  true. 

If  Heaven  be  so  severe, 
That  such  a  soul  as  thine  is  lost, — 

Oh  1  how  shall  /  appear  ? 


Acton. 


REGRET. 


Long  ago  I  wished  to  leave 
"  The  house  where  I  was  born  ;'* 
Long  ago  I  used  to  grieve, 
My  home  seemed  so  forlorn, 
In  other  years,  its  silent  rooms 
Were  filled  with  haunting  fears ; 
Now,  their  very  memory  comes 
O'ercharged  with  tender  tears. 


Life  and  marriage  I  have  known, 

Things  once  deemed  so  bright ; 

Now,  how  utterly  is  flown 

Every  ray  of  light ! 

'Mid  the  unknown  sea  of  life 

I  no  blest  isle  have  found ; 

At  last,  through  all  its  wild  wave's  strife, 

My  bark  is  homeward  bound. 

Farewell,  dark  and  rolling  deep ! 

Farewell,  foreign  shore ! 

Open,  in  unclouded  sweep, 

Thou  glorious  realm  before  ! 

Yet,  though  I  had  safely  pass'd 

That  weary,  vexed  main. 

One  loved  voice,  through  surge  and  blast, 

Could  call  me  back  again. 

Though  the  soul's  bright  morning  rose 

O'er  Paradise  for  me, 

William  !  even  from  Heaven's  repose 

I'd  turn,  invoked  by  thee  ! 

Storm  nor  surge  should  e'er  arrest 

My  soul,  exulting  then  : 

-\11  my  heaven  was  once  thy  breast, 

Would  it  were  mine  again  ! 


CURRER. 


# 


108 


TO  IMAGINATION. 


When  weary  with  the  long  day's  care, 
And  earthly  change  from  pain  to  pain, 

And  lost  and  ready  to  despair. 

Thy  kind  voice  calls  me  back  again : 

Oh,  my  true  friend !  I  am  not  lone, 

While  thou  canst  speak  with  such  a  tone  ! 

So  hopeless  is  the  world  without ; 

The  world  within  I  doubly  prize ; 
Thy  world,  where  guile,  and  hate,  and  doubt. 

And  cold  suspicion  never  rise ; 
Where  thou,  and  I,  and  Liberty, 
Have  undisputed  sovereignty. 

What  matters  it,  that,  all  around. 
Danger,  and  guilt,  and  darkness  lie. 

If  but  within  our  bosom's  bound 
We  hold  a  bright,  untroubled  sky. 

Warm  with  ten  thousand  mingled  rays 

Of  suns  that  know  no  winter  days  ? 

Reason,  indeed,  may  oft  complain 

For  Nature's  sad  reality, 
And  tell  the  suffering  heart,  how  vain 

Its  cherished  dreams  must  always  be ; 
And  Truth  may  rudely  trample  down 
The  flowers  of  Fancy,  newly-blown : 


1r 


THE    DOUBTER  S   PRAYER. 

But,  thou  art  ever  there,  to  bring 

The  hovering  vision  back,  and  breathe 

New  glories  o'er  the  bhghted  spring, 
And  call  a  lovelier  Life  and  Death, 

And  whisper,  with  a  voice  divine. 

Of  real  worlds,  as  bright  as  thine. 

I  trust  not  to  thy  phantom  bliss. 
Yet,  still,  in  evening's  quiet  hour, 

With  never-failing  thankfulness, 
I  welcome  thee,  Benignant  Power ; 

Sure  solacer  of  human  cares. 

And  sweeter  hope,  when  hope  despairs ! 


Ellis. 


THE  DOUBTER'S  PRAYER. 

Eternal  Power,  of  earth  and  air ! 
Unseen,  yet  seen  in  all  around, 
Remote,  but  dwelling  everywhere. 
Though  silent,  heard  in  every  sound. 

If  e'er  thine  ear  in  mercy  bent. 
When  wretched  mortals  cried  to  Thee, 
And  if,  indeed,  Thy  Son  was  sent, 
To  save  lost  sinners  such  as  me  : 
6 


110  THE  doubter's  PRAYER.     ^  j 

Then  hear  me  now,  while,  kneeUng  here, 

I  lift  to  thee  my  heart  and  eye,  .      ' 

And  all  my  soul  ascends  in  prayer, 

0  give  me — give  me  Faith  J  I  cry. 
/ 

I    Without  some  glimmering  in  my  heart, 
\    I  could  not  raise  this  fervent  prayer ; 

But,  oh  !  a  stronger  light  impart, 

And  in  Thy  mercy  fix  it  there. 

While  Faith  is  with  me,  I  am  blest ; 
It  turns  my  darkest  night  to  day ; 
But  while  I  clasp  it  to  my  breast, 

1  often  feel  it  slide  away. 

I  Then,  cold  and  dark,  my  spirit  sinks, 
/    To  see  my  light  of  life  depart ; 
i     And  every  fiend  of  Hell,  methinks,  I 

Enjoys  the  anguish  of  my  heart. 

What  shall  I  do,  if  all  my  love, 
My  hopes,  my  toil,  are  cast  away, 
And  if  there  be  no  God  above. 
To  hear  and  bless  me  when  I  pray  ? 

If  this  be  vain  delusion  all, 
If  death  be  an  eternal  sleep, 
And  none  can  hear  my  secret  call, 
Or  see  the  silent  tears  I  weep  ! 


THE  doubter's  PRAYER.  Ill          | 

Oh,  help  me,  God  !     For  thou  alone  ^ 

Canst  my  distracted  soul  relieve  ;  1 

Forsake  it  not :  it  is  thine  own,  I 

Though  weak,  yet  longing  to  believe.  1 

Oh,  drive  these  cruel  doubts  away;  1 

And  make  me  know,  that  Thou  art  God !  \ 

A  faith,  that  shines  by  night  and  day,  '  ] 

Will  lighten  every  earthly  load.  ] 

i 

If  I  believe  that  Jesus  died,  I 

And,  waking,  rose  to  reign  above  ;  1 

Then  surely  Sorrow,  Sin,  and  Pride,  j 

Must  yield  to  Peace,  and  Hope,  and  Love.  j 

And  all  the  blessed  words  He  said  i 

Will  strength  and  holy  joy  impart :  t 

A  shield  of  safety  o'er  my  head,  '{ 

A  spring  of  comfort  in  my  heart.  -I 

1 


Acton. 


,C  ^'^/■■-  ^> 


112 


PRESENTIMENT. 

"  Sister,  you've  sat  there  all  the  day, 

Come  to  the  hearth  awhile  ; 
The  wind  so  wildly  sweeps  away, 

The  clouds  so  darkly  pile. 
That  open  book  has  lain,  unread, 

For  hours  upon  your  knee ; 
You've  never  smiled  nor  turned  your  head ; 

What  can  you,  sister,  see  ?" 

"  Come  hither,  Jane,  look  down  the  field ; 

How  dense  a  mist  creeps  on ! 
The  path,  the  hedge,  are  both  concealed, 

Ev'n  the  white  gate  is  gone ; 
No  landscape  through  the  fog  I  trace. 

No  hill  with  pastures  green  ; 
All  featureless  is  nature's  face, 

All  masked  in  clouds  her  mien. 

**  Scarce  is  the  rustle  of  a  leaf 

Heard  in  our  garden  now  ; 
The  year  grows  old,  its  days  wax  brief, 

The  tresses  leave  its  brow. 
The  rain  drives  fast  before  the  wind. 

The  sky  is  blank  and  grey ; 
O  Jane,  what  sadness  fills  the  mind 

On  such  a  dreary  day  !" 


PRESENTIMENT.  113 

"  You  think  too  much,  my  sister  dear ; 

You  sit  too  long  alone  ; 
What  though  November  days  be  drear  ? 

Full  soon  will  they  be  gone. 
I've  swept  the  hearth,  and  placed  your  chair, 

Come,  Emma,  sit  by  me  ; 
Our  own  fireside  is  never  drear, 
Though  late  and  wintry  wane  the  year, 

Though  rough  the  night  may  be." 

"  The  peaceful  glow  of  our  fireside 

Imparts  no  peace  to  me  : 
My  thoughts  would  rather  wander  wide 

Than  rest,  dear  Jane,  with  thee. 
I'm  on  a  distant  journey  bound. 

And  if,  about  my  heart. 
Too  closely  kindred  ties  were  bound, 

'T  would  break  when  forced  to  part, 

"  '  Soon  will  November  days  be  o'er  ;' 

Well  have  you  spoken,  Jane  :  • 

My  own  forebodings  tell  me  more, 
For  me,  I  know  by  presage  sure, 

They'll  ne'er  return  again. 
Ere  long,  nor  sun  nor  storm  to  me 

Will  bring  or  joy  or  gloom  ; 
They  reach  not  that  Eternity 

Which  soon  will  be  my  home." 


114  PRESENTIMENT. 

Eight  months  are  gone,  the  summer  sun 

Sets  in  a  glorious  sky  ; 
A  quiet  field,  all  green  and  lone, 

Receives  its  rosy  dye. 
Jane  sits  upon  a  shaded  stile, 

Alone  she  sits  there  now  ; 
Her  head  rests  on  her  hand  the  while, 

And  thought  o'ercasts  her  brow. 

She's  thinking  of  one  winter's  day, 

A  few  short  months  ago. 
When  Emma's  bier  was  borne  away 

O'er  wastes  of  frozen  snow. 
She's  thinking  how  that  drifted  snow 

Dissolved  in  spring's  first  gleam. 
And  how  her  sister's  memory  now 

Fades,  even  as  fades  a  dream. 

The  snow  will  whiten  earth  again, 

But  Emma  comes  no  more  ; 
She  left,  'mid  winter's  sleet  and  rain. 

This  world  for  Heaven's  far  shore. 
On  Beulah's  hills  she  wanders  now, 

On  Eden's  tranquil  plain  ; 
To  her  shall  Jane  hereafter  go. 

She  ne'er  shall  come  to  Jane  ! 


CURRER. 


115 


HOW  CLEAR   SHE   SHINES. 

How  clear  she  shines  !  How  quietly 

I  lie  beneath  her  guardian  light ; 
While  heaven  and  earth  are  whispering  me, 

"  To-morrow,  wake,  but  dream  to-night." 
Yes,  Fancy,  come,  my  Fairy  love  ! 

These  throbbing  temples  softly  kiss ; 
And  bend  my  lonely  couch  above 

And  bring  me  rest,  and  bring  me  bliss. 

The  world  is  going  ;  dark  world,  adieu  ! 

Grim  world,  conceal  thee  till  the  day ; 
The  heart,  thou  canst  not  all  subdue, 

Must  still  resist,  if  thou  delay  ! 

Thy  love  I  will  not,  will  not  share  ; 

Thy  hatred  only  wakes  a  smile  ; 
'  Thy  griefs  may  wound — thy  wrong  may  tear, 

But,  oh,  thy  lies  shall  ne'er  beguile  ! 
While  gazing  on  the  stars  that  glow 

Above  me,  in  that  stormless  sea, 
I  long  to  hope  that  all  the  woe 

Creation  knows,  is  held  in  thee  ! 

And  this  shall  be  my  dream  to-night ; 
ril  think  the  heaven  of  glorious  spheres 


116  A    WORD    TO    THE    "ELECT." 

Is  rolling  on  its  course  of  light 

In  endless  bliss,  through  endless  years ; 

I'll  think,  there's  not  one  world  above. 
Far  as  these  straining  eyes  can  see, 

Where  Wisdom  ever  laughed  at  Love, 
Or  Virtue  crouched  to  Infamy ; 

Where,  writhing  'neath  the  strokes  of  Fate, 

The  mangled  wretch  was  forced  to  smile  ; 
To  match  his  patience  'gainst  her  hate, 

His  heart  rebeUious  all  the  while. 
Where  Pleasure  still  will  lead  to  wrong, 

And  helpless  reason  warn  in  vain  ; 
And  Truth  is  weak,  and  Treachery  strong  ; 

And  Joy  the  surest  path  to  Pain ; 
•  And  Peace,  the  lethargy  of  Grief; 

And  Hope,  a  phantom  of  the  soul ; 
And  Life,  a  labour,  void  and  brief; 

And  Death,  the  despot  of  the  whole  ! 

Ellis. 


A  WORD  TO   THE   "ELECT." 

You  may  rejoice  to  think  yourselves  secure  ; 

You  may  be  grateful  for  the  gift  divine — 

That  grace  unsought,  which  made  your  black  hearts 

pure, 
And  fits  your  earth-born  souls  in  Heaven  to  shine. 


A    WORD    TO    THE    ''ELECT."  117 

But,  is  it  sweet  to  look  around,  and  view 
Thousands  excluded  from  that  happiness 
Which  they  deserved,  at  least,  as  much  as  you,— 
Their  faults  not  greater,  nor  their  virtues  less  ? 

And,  wherefore  should  you  love  your  God  the  more 
Because  to  you  alone  his  smiles,  are  given ; 
Because  he  chose  to  pass  the  many  o'er. 
And  only  bring  the  favoured /cm;  to  Heaven  ? 

And,  wherefore  should  your  hearts  more  grateful 

prove. 
Because  for  all  the  Saviour  did  not  die  ? 
Is  yours  the  God  of  justice  and  of  love  ? 
And  are  your  bosoms  warm  with  charity  'i 

Say,  does  your  heart  expand  to  all  mankind  ? 
And,  would  you  ever  to  your  neighbour  do — 
The  weak,  the  strong,  the  enlightened,  and  the 

blind- 
As  you  would  have  your  neighbour  do  to  you  ? 

And ,  when  you,  looking  on  your  fellow-men. 
Behold  them  doomed  to  endless  misery. 
How  can  you  talk  of  joy  and  rapture  then  ? — 
May  God  withhold  such  cruel  joy  from  me  ! 

That  none  deserve  eternal  bliss  I  know ; 
Unmerited  the  grace  in  mercy  given : 


118  A   WORD    TO    THE    "ELECT." 

But,  none  shall  sink  to  everlasting  woe, 

That  have  not  well  deserved  the  wrath  of  Heaven. 

And,  oh  !  there  lives  within  my  heart 

A  hope,  long  nursed  by  me  ; 
(And,  should  its  cheering  ray  depart, 

How  dark  my  soul  would  be !) 

That  as  in  Adam  all  have  died. 

In  Christ  shall  all  men  live  ; 
And  ever  round  his  throne  abide, 

Eternal  praise  to  give. 

That  even  the  wicked  shall  at  last 

Be  fitted  for  the  skies  ; 
And,  when  their  dreadful  doom  is  past. 

To  life  and  light  arise. 

I  ask  not,  how  remote  the  day, 

Nor  what  the  sinners'  woe. 
Before  their  dross  is  purged  away ; 

Enough  for  me,  to  know 

That  when  the  cup  of  wrath  is  drained, 

The  metal  purified. 
They'll  cling  to  what  they  once  disdained, 

And  live  by  Him  that  died. 

Acton. 


119 


THE  TEACHER'S  MONOLOGUE. 

The  room  is  quiet,  thoughts  alone 

People  its  mute  tranquillity ; 

The  yoke  put  off,  the  long  task  done, — 

I  am,  as  it  is  bliss  to  be. 

Still  and  untroubled.     Now,  I  see. 

For  the  first  time,  how  soft  the  day 

O'er  waveless  water,  stirless  tree, 

Silent  and  sunny,  wings  its  way. 

Now,  as  I  watch  that  distant  hill. 

So  faint,  so  blue,  so  far  removed, 

Sweet  dreams  of  home  my  heart  may  fill, 

That  home  where  I  am  known  and  loved : 

It  lies  beyond  ;  yon  azure  brow 

Parts  me  from  all  Earth  holds  for  me  ; 

And,  morn  and  eve,  my  yearnings  flow 

Thitherward  tending,  changelessly. 

My  happiest  hours,  aye  !  all  the  time, 

I  love  to  keep  in  memory, 

Lapsed  among  moors,  ere  life's  first  prime 

Decayed  to  dark  anxiety. 

Sometimes,  I  think  a  narrow  heart 
Makes  me  thus  mourn  those  far  away. 
And  keeps  my  love  so  far  apart 
From  friends  and  friendships  of  to-day  ; 


120        THE  teacher's  MONOLOGUE. 

Sometimes,  I  think  'tis  but  a  dream 

I  treasure  up  so  jealously? 

All  the  sweet  thoughts  I  live  on  seem 

To  vanish  into  vacancy  ; 

And  then,  this  strange,  coarse  world  around 

Seems  all  that's  palpable  and  true  ; 

And  every  sight,  and  every  sound,. 

Combines  my  spirit  to  subdue 

To  aching  grief,  so  void  and  lone 

Is  Life  and  Earth — so  worse  than  vain, 

The  hopes  that,  in  my  own  heart  sown, 

And  cherished  by  such  sun  and  rain 

As  Joy  and  transient  Sorrow  shed, 

Have  ripened  to  a  harvest  there : 

Alas  !  methinks  I  hear  it  said, 

"  Thy  golden  sheaves  are  empty  air." 

All  fades  away  ;  my  very  home 

I  think  will  soon  be  desolate  ; 

I  hear,  at  times,  a  warning  come 

Of  bitter  partings  at  its  gate  ; 

And,  if  I  should  return  and  see 

The  hearth-fire  quenched,  the  vacant  chair ; 

And  hear  it  whispered  mournfully. 

That  farewells  have  been  spoken  there, 

What  shall  I  do,  and  whither  turn  ? 

Where  look  for  peace  ?  When  cease  to  mourn  ? 


THE  teacher's  MONOLOGUE.        121 

'Tis  not  the  air  I  wished  to  play. 

The  strain  I  wished  to  sing ; 
My  wilful  spirit  slipped  away 

And  struck  another  string. 
I  neither  wanted  smile  npr  tear, 

Bright  joy  nor  bitter  woe, 
But  just  a  song  that  sweet  and  clear, 

Though  haply  sad,  might  flow. 

A  quiet  song,  to  solace  me 

When  sleep  refused  to  come ; 
A  strain  to  chase  despondency, 

When  sorrowful  fc^  home. 
In  vain  I  try  ;  I  cannot  sing  ; 

All  feels  so  cold  and  dead  ; 
No  wild  distress,  no  gushing  spring 

Of  tears  in  anguish  shed  ; 

But  all  the  impatient  gloom  of  one 

Who  waits  a  distant  day. 
When,  some  great  task  of  suffering  done, 

Repose  shall  toil  repay. 
For  youth  departs,  and  pleasure  flies, 

And  life  consumes  away. 
And  youth's  rejoicing  ardour  dies 

Beneath  this  drear  delay  ; 

And  Patience,  weary  with  her  yoke, 

Is  yielding  to  despair. 
And  Health's  elastic  spring  is  broke 

Beneath  the  strain  of  care. 


122  SYMPATHY. 

Life  will  be  gone  ere  I  have  lived ; 

Where  now  is  Life's  first  prime  ? 
I've  worked  and  studied,  longed  and  grieved, 

Through  all  that  rosy  time. 
• 
To  toil,  to  think,  to  long,  to  grieve, — 

Is  such  my  future  fate  ? 
The  morn  was  dreary,  must  the  eve 

Be  also  desolate  1 
Well,  such  a  life  at  least  makes  Death 

A  welcome,  wished-for  friend  ; 
Then,  aid  me.  Reason,  Patience,  Faith, 

To  suffer  to  the  end  ! 


CURRER. 


SYMPATHY. 

There  should  be  no  despair  for  you 

While  nightly  stars  are  burning ; 
While  evening  pours  its  silent  dew 

And  sunshine  gilds  the  morning. 
There  should  be  no  despair — though  tears 

May  flow  down  like  a  river  : 
Are  not  the  best  beloved  of  years 

Around  your  heart  for  ever  ? 


PAST    DAYS, 

They  weep,  you  weep,  it  must  be  so ; 

Winds  sigh  as  you  are  sighing, 
And  winter  sheds  his  grief  in  snow 

Where  Autumn's  leaves  are  lying : 
Yet,  these  revive,  and  from  their  fate 

Your  fate  cannot  be  parted  : 
Then,  journey  on,  if  not  elate. 

Still,  never  broken-hearted  ! 


PAST  DAYS. 


123 


*  A 


Ellis. 


'Tis  strange  to  think,  there  was  a  time 
When  mirth  was  not  an  empty  name. 
When  laughter  really  cheered  the  heart, 
And  frequent  smiles  unbidden  came, 
And  tears  of  grief  would  only  flow 
In  sympathy  for  others'  woe  ; 

When  speech  expressed  the  inward  thought. 
And  heart  to  kindred  heart  was  bare. 
And  Summer  days  were  far  too  short 
For  all  the  pleasures  crowded  there. 
And  silence,  solitude,  and  rest. 
Now  welcome  to  the  weary  breast — 


124  PASSION. 

Were  all  unprized,  uncourted  then — 
And  all  the  joy  one  spirit  showed, 
The  other  deeply  felt  again ; 
And  friendship  like  a  river  flowed, 
Constant  and  strong  its  silent  course, 
For  nought  withstood  its  gentle  force : 

When  night,  the  holy  time  of  peace, 
Was  dreaded  as  the  parting  hour  ; 
When  speech  and  mirth  at  once  must  cease, 
And  Silence  must  resume  her  power ; 
Though  ever  free  from  pains  and  woes. 
She  only  brought  us  calm  repose. 

And  when  the  blessed  dawn  again 
Brought  dayhght  to  the  blushing  skies, 
We  woke,  and  not  reluctant  th  en, 
To  joyless  labour  did  we  rise  ; 
But  full  of  hope,  and  glad  and  gay. 
We  welcomed  the  returning  day. 


Acton. 


PASSION. 


Some  have  won  a  wild  delight, 
By  daring  wilder  sorrow  ; 

Could  I  gain  thy  love  to-night, 
rd  hazard  death  to-morrow. 


PASSION.  125 

Could  the  battle-struggle  earn 

One  kind  glance  from  thine  eye, 
How  this  withering  hearty  would  bum, 

The  heady  fight  to  try ! 

0 

Welcome  nights  of  broken  sleep. 

And  days  of  carnage  cold, 
Could  I  deem  that  thou  wouldst  weep 

To  hear  my  perils  told. 

Tell  me,  if  with  wandering  bands 

I  roam  full  far  away. 
Wilt  thou,  to  those  distant  lands. 

In  spirit  ever  stray  ? 

Wild,  long,  a  trumpet  sounds  afar ; 

Bid  me — ^bid  me  go 
Where  Seik  and  Briton  meet  in  war, 

On  Indian  Sutlej's  flow. 

Blood  has  dyed  the  Sutlej's  waves 

With  scarlet  stain,  I  know  ; 
Indus'  borders  yawn  with  graves. 

Yet,  command  me  go  ! 

Though  rank  and  high  the  holocaust 

Of  nations,  steams  to  heaven. 
Glad  I'd  join  the  death-doomed  host, 

Were  but  the  mandate  given.  ' 

6* 


126 


Passion's  strength  should  nerve  my  arm, 

Its  ardour  stir  my  life, 
Till  human  force  to  that  dread  charm 
Should  yield  and  sink  in  wild  alarm, 

Like  trees  to  tempest-strife. 

If,  hot  from  war,  I  seek  thy  love, 

Darest  thou  turn  aside  ? 
Barest  thou,  then,  my  fire  reprove, 

By  scorn,  and  maddening  pride  ? 

No — my  will  shall  yet  control 

Thy  will,  so  high  and  free. 
And  love  shall  tame  that  haughty  soul — 

Yes — tenderest  love  for  me. 

I'll  read  my  triumph  in  thine  eyes. 

Behold,  and  prove  the  change ; 
Then  leave,  perchance,  my  noble  prize, 

Once  more  in  arms  to  range. 

I'd  die  when  all  the  foam  is  up. 
The  bright  wine  sparkling  high  ; 

Nor  wait  till  in  the  exhausted  cup 
Life's  dull  dregs  only  lie. 

Then  Love  thus  crowned  with  sweet  reward, 

Hope  blest  with  fulness  large, 
I'd  mount  the  saddle,  draw  the  sword, 

And  perish  in  the  charge  ! 

CURRER. 


127 


PREFERENCE. 

Not  in  scorn  do  I  reprove  thee, 

Not  in  pride  thy  vows  I  waive, 

But,  believe,  I  could  not  love  thee, 

Wert  thou  prince,  and  I  a  slave. 

These,  then,  are  thine  oaths  of  passion  ? 

This,  thy  tenderness  for  me  ? 

Judged,  even,  by  thine  own  confession. 

Thou  art  steeped  in  perfidy. 

Having  vanquished,  thou  wouldst  leave  me, 

Thus  I  read  thee  long  ago ; 

Therefore,  dared  I  not  deceive  thee. 

Even  with  friendship's  gentle  show. 

Therefore,  with  impassive  coldness 

Have  I  ever  met  thy  gaze  ; 

Though,  full  oft,  with  daring  boldness. 

Thou  thine  eyes  to  mine  didst  raise. 

Why  that  smile  ?     Thou  now  art  deeming 

This  my  coldness  all  untrue, — 

But  a  mask  of  frozen  seeming. 

Hiding  secret  fires  from  view. 

Touch  my  hand,  thou  self-deceiver ; 

Nay — be  calm,  for  I  am  so  : 

Does  it  burn  ?     Does  my  lip  quiver  ? 


128  PREFERENCE. 

Has  mine  eye  a  troubled  glow  ? 

Canst  thou  call  a  moment's  colour 

To  my  forehead — to  my  cheek  ? 

Canst  thou  tinge  their  tranquil  pallor 

With  one  flattering,  feverish  streak  ? 

Am  I  marble  ?     What !  no  woman 

Could  so  calm  before  thee  stand  ? 

Nothing  living,  sentient,  human, 

Could  so  coldly  take  thy  hand  ? 

Yes — a  sister  might,  a  mother : 

My  good-will  is  sisterly : 

Dream  not,  then,  I  strive  to  smother 

Fires  that  inly  burn  for  thee. 

Rave  not,  rage  not,  wrath  is  fruitless, 

Fury  cannot  change  my  mind  ; 

I  but  deem  the  feeling  rootless 

Which  so  whirls  in  passion's  wind. 

Can  I  love  ?     Oh,  deeply — truly — 

Warmly — fondly — but  not  thee  ; 

And  my  love  is  answered  duly. 

With  an  equal  energy. 

Wouldst  thou  see  thy  rival  ?  Hasten, 

Draw  that  curtain  soft  aside. 

Look  where  yon  thick  branches  chasten 

Noon,  with  shades  of  eventide. 

In  that  glade,  where  foliage  blending 

Forms  a  green  arch  overhead. 

Sits  thy  rival  thoughtful  bending 

O'er  a  stand  with  papers  spread — 

Motionless,  his  fingers  plying 


PREFERENCE.  129 

That  untired,  unresting  pen  ; 
Time  and  tide  unnoticed  flying, 
There  he  sits — the  first  of  men  ! 
Man  of  conscience — man  of  reason  ; 
Stern,  perchance,  but  ever  just ; 
Foe  to  falsehood,  wrong,  and  treason, 
Honour's  shield,  and  virtue's  trust ! 
Worker,  thinker,  firm  defender 
Of  Heaven's  truth — man's  liberty ; 
Soul  of  iron — proof  to  slander, 
Rock  where  founders  tyranny. 
Fame  he  seeks  not — but  full  surely 
She  will  seek  him,  in  his  home ; 
This  I  know,  and  wait  securely 
For  the  atoning  hour  to  come. 
To  that  man  my  faith  is  given, 
Therefore,  soldier,  cease  to  sue ; 
While  God  reigns  in  earth  and  heaven, 
I  to  him  will  still  be  true ! 

CURRER. 


|:^(> 


PLEAD   FOR  ME. 

Oh,  thy  bright  eyes  must  answer  now. 
When  Reason,  with  a  scornful  brow. 
Is  mocking  at  my  overthrow  \ 
Oh,  thy  sweet  tongue  must  plead  for  me 
And  tell,  why  I  have  chosen  thee  ! 

Stern  Reason  is  to  judgment  come. 
Arrayed  in  all  her  forms  of  gloom : 
Wilt  thou,  my  advocate,  be  dumb  ? 
No,  radiant  angel,  speak  and  say. 
Why  I  did  cast  the  world  away. 

Why  I  have  persevered  to  shun 
The  common  paths  that  others  run. 
And  on  a  strange  road  journeyed  on. 
Heedless,  alike,  of  wealth  and  power — 
Of  glory's  wreath  and  pleasure's  flower. 

These,  once,  indeed,  seemed  Beings  Divine  ; 
And  they,  perchance,  heard  vows  of  mine. 
And  saw  my  oflTerings  on  their  shrine  ; 
But,  careless  gifts  are  seldom  prized, 
And  mine  were  worthily  despised. 


PLEAD    FOR   ME.  131 

So,  with  a  ready  heart  I  swore 
To  seek  their  altar-stone  no  more  ; 
And  gave  my  spirit  to  adore 
Thee,  ever-present,  phantom  thing ; 
My  slave,  my  comrade,  and  my  king. 

A  slave,  because  I  rule  thee  still ; 
Incline  thee  to  my  changeful  will. 
And  make  thy  influence  good  or  ill : 
A  comrade,  for  by  day  and  night 
Thou  art  my  intimate  delight,— 

My  darling  pain  that  wounds  and  sears 
And  wrings  a  blessing  out  from  tears 
By  deadening  me  to  earthly  cares ; 
And  yet,  a  king,  though  Prudence  well 
Have  taught  thy  subject  to  rebel. 

And  am  I  wrong  to  worship,  where 
Faith  cannot  doubt,  nor  hope  despair, 
Since  my  own  soul  can  grant  my  pVayer  ? 
Speak,  God  of  visions,  plead  for  me, 
And  tell  why  1  have  chosen  thee  ! 

Ellis. 


132 


THE  CONSOLATION. 

Though  bleak  these  woods,  and  damp  the  ground 
With  fallen  leaves  so  thickly  strown, 
And  cold  the  wind  that  wanders  round 
With  wild  and  melancholy  moan  ; 

There  is  a  friendly  roof,  I  know. 
Might  shield  me  from  the  wintry  blast ; 
There  is  a  i&re,  whose  ruddy  glow 
Will  cheer  me  for  my  wanderings  past. 

And  so,  though  still,  where'er  I  go, 
Cold  stranger-glances  meet  my  eye  ; 
Though,  when  my  spirit  sinks  in  woe, 
Unheeded  swells  the  unbidden  sigh ; 

Though  soHtude,  endured  too  long. 
Bids  youthful  joys  too  soon  decay. 
Makes  mirth  a  stranger  to  my  tongue. 
And  overclouds  my  noon  of  day ; 

When  kindly  thoughts,  that  would  have  way, 
Flow  back  discouraged  to  my  breast ; — 
I  know  there  i»,  though  far  away, 
A  home  where  heart  and  soul  may  rest. 


EVENING    SOLACE.  133 

Warm  hands  are  there,  that,  clasped  in  mine, 
The  warmer  heart  will  not  belie  ; 
While  mirth,  and  truth,  and  friendsliiip  shine 
In  smiling  lip  and  earnest  eye. 

The  ice  that  gathers  round  mj  heart 
May  there  be  thawed ;  and  sweetly,  tlien„ 
The  joys  of  youth,  that  now  depart. 
Will  come  to  cheer  my  soul  again. 

Though  far  I  roam,  that  thought  shall  be 
My  hope,  my  comfort,  everywhere  ; 
While  such  a  home  remains  to  me. 
My  heart  shall  never  know  despair  I 

Acton. 


EVENING  SOLACE. 

The  human  heart  has  hidden  treasures. 
In  secret  kept,  in  silence  sealed ; — 
The  thoughts,  the  hopes,  the  dreams,  the 

pleasures. 
Whose  charms  were  broken  if  revealed. 
And  days  may^  pass  in  gay  confusionv 
And  nights  in  rosy  riot  fly. 
While,  lost  in  Fame's  or  Wealth^s  illusion. 
The  memory  ©f  the  Past  may  die. 
7 


134  EVENING    SOLACE. 

But,  there  are  hours  of  lonely  musing, 
Such  as  in  evening  silence  come, 
When,  soft  as  birds  their  pinions  closing. 
The  heart's  best  feelings  gather  home. 
Then  in  our  souls  there  seems  to  languish 
A  tender  grief  that  is  not  woe  ; 
And  thoughts  that  once  wrung  groans  of 

anguish. 
Now  cause  but  some  mild  tears  to  flow.       ii 

And  feelings,  once  as  strong  as  passions, 

Float  softly  back — a  faded  dream  ; 

Our  own  sharp  griefs  and  wild  sensations, 

The  tale  of  others'  sufferings  seem. 

Oh !  when  the  heart  is  freshly  bleeding. 

How  longs  it  for  that  time  to  be. 

When,  through  the  mist  of  years  receding. 

Its  woes  but  live  in  reverie ! 

And  it  can  dwell  on  moonlight  glimmer. 

On  evening  shade  and  loneliness  ; 

And,  while  the  sky  grows  dim  and  dimmer, 

Feel  no  untold  and  strange  distress — 

Only  a  deeper  impulse  given 

By  lonely  hour  and  darkened  room, 

To  solemn  thoughts  that  soar  to  heaven, 

Seeking  a  life  and  world  to  come. 


CURRER. 


135 


SELF-INTERROGATION.  \ 

i 

"  The  evening  passes  fast  away,  i 

'Tis  almost  time  to  rest ; 

What  thoughts  has  left  the  vanished  day,  ; 

What  feelings,  in  thy  breast  ?    '  J 

I 

"  The  vanished  day  ?     It  leaves  a  sense  I 

Of  labour  hardly  done  ;  i 

Of  little,  gained  with  vast  expense, —  | 

A  sense  of  grief  alone  !  I 

"  Time  stands  before  the  door  of  Death,  ] 

Upbraiding  bitterly ;  J 

And  Conscience,  with  exhaustless  breath,  i 

Pours  black  reproach  on  me  :  \ 

"  And  though  I've  said  that  Conscience  lies,  1 

And  Time  should  Fate  condemn  ;  i 

Still,  sad  Repentance  clouds  my  eyes,  \ 

And  makes  me  yield  to  them !  ^ 

"  Then  art  thou  glad  to  seek  repose  ?  j 

Art  glad  to  leave  the  sea,  ■■ 

And  anchor  all  thy  weary  woes  j 

In  calm  Eternity  ?  ij 

.  ■  1 


136  SELF-INTERROGATION. 

"Nothing  regrets  to  see  thee  go — 

Not  one  voice  sobs  '  farewell,' 
And  where  thy  heart  has  suffered  so, 

Canst  thou  desire  to  dwell  ?" 

"  Alas !  The  countless  links  are  strong 

That  bind  us  to  our  clay ; 
The  loving  spirit  lingers  long, 

And  would  not  pass  away ! 

"  And  rest  is  sweet,  when  laurelled  fame 

Will  crown  the  soldier's  crest ; 
But,  a  brave  heart,  with  a  tarnished  name. 

Would  rather  fight  than  rest." 

«  Well,  thou  hast  fought  for  many  a  year, 
Hast  fought  thy  whole  life  through. 

Hast  humbled  Falsehood,  trampled  Fear ; 
What  is  there  left  to  do  ?" 

"'Tis  true,  this  arm  has  hotly  striven, 
Has  dared  what  few  would  dare ; 

Much  have  I  done,  and  freely  given, 
But  little  learnt  to  bear !" 

"Look  on  the  grave,  where  thou  must  sleep, 

Thy  last,  and  strongest  foe  ; 
It  is  endurance  not  to  weep, 

If  that  repose  seem  woe. 


LINES    COMPOSED    IN   A   WOOD.  137 

"  The  long  war  closing  in  defeat, 

Defeat  serenely  borne, 
Thy  midnight  rest  may  still  be  sweet, 

And  break  in  glorious  morn  !" 

Ellis. 


LINES  COMPOSED  IN  A  WOOD  ON  A 
WINDY  DAY. 

My  soul  is  awakened,  my  spirit  is  soaring 
And  carried  aloft  on  the  wings  of  the  breeze ; 
For  above  and  around  me  the  wild  wind  is  roaring. 
Arousing  to  rapture  the  earth  and  the  seas. 

The  long  withered  grass  in  the  sunshine  is  glancing, 
The  bare  trees  are  tossing  their  branches  on  high ; 
The  dead  leaves,  beneath  them,  are  merrily  dancing, 
The  white  clouds  are  scudding  across  the  blue  sky. 

I  wish  I  could  see  how  the  ocean  is  lashing 
The  foam  of  its  billows  to  whirlwinds  of  spray  ; 
I  wish  I  could  see  how  its  proud  waves  are  dashing, 
And  hear  the  wild  roar  of  their  thunder  to-day  ! 

Acton. 


138 


STANZAS. 

If  thou  be  in  a  lonely  place, 

If  one  hour's  calm  be  thine, 
As  Evening  bends  her  placid  face 

O'er  this  sweet  day's  decline  ; 
If  all  the  earth  and  all  the  heaven 

Now  look  serene  to  thee, 
As  o'er  them  shuts  the  summer  even, 

One  moment— think  of  me  ! 

Pause,  in  the  lane,  returning  home  ; 

'Tis  dusk,  it  will  be  still : 
Pause  near  the  elm,  a  sacred  gloom 

Its  breezeless  boughs  will  fill. 
Look  at  that  soft  and  golden  light. 

High  in  the  unclouded  sky ; 
Watch  the  last  bird's  belated  flight, 

As  it  flits  silent  by. 

Hark !  for  a  sound  upon  the  wind, 

A  step,  a  voice,  a  sigh ; 
If  all  be  still,  then  yield  thy  mind. 

Unchecked,  to  memory. 
If  thy  love  were  like  mine,  how  blest 

That  twilight  hour  would  seem. 
When,  back  from  the  regretted  Past, 

Returned  our  early  dream ! 


139 


If  thy  love  were  like  mine,  how  wild 

Thy  longings,  even  lo  pain, 
For  sunset  soft,  and  moonlight  mild, 

To  bring  that  hour  again  ! 
But  oft,  when  in  thine  arms  I  lay, 

I've  seen  thy  dark  eyes  shine, 
And  deeply  felt,  their  changeful  ray 

Spoke  other  love  than  mine. 

My  love  is  almost  anguish  now, 

It  beats  so  strong  and  true  ; 
'Twere  rapture,  could  I  deem  that  thou 

Such  anguish  ever  knew. 
I  have  been  but  thy  transient  flower. 

Thou  wert  my  god  divine  ; 
Till,  checked  by  death's  congealing  power. 

This  heart  must  throb  for  thine. 

And  well  my  dying  hour  were  blest, 

If  life's  expiring  breath 
Should  pass,  as  thy  lips  gently  prest 

My  forehead,  cold  in  death  ; 
And  sound  my  sleep  would  be,  and  sweet, 

Beneath  the  churchyard  tree. 
If  sometimes  in  thy  heart  should  beat 

One  pulse,  still  true  to  me. 

CURRER. 


140 


DEATH. 

Death!  that  struck  when  I  was  most  confiding 
In  my  certain  faith  of  joy  to  be — 
Strike  again,  Time's  withered  branch  dividing 
From  the  fresh  root  of  Eternity  ! 

Leaves,  upon  Time's  branch,  were  growing  brightly, 
Full  of  sap,  and  full  of  silver  dew ; 
Birds  beneath  its  shelter  gathered  nightly ; 
Daily  round  its  flowers  the  wild  bees  flew. 

Sorrow  passed,  and  plucked  the  golden  blossom  ; 
Guilt  stripped  off"  the  foliage  in  its  pride  ; 
But,  within  its  parent's  kindly  bosom, 
Flowed  for  ever  Life's  restoring  tide. 

Little  mourned  I  for  the  parted  gladness. 

For  the  vacant  nest  and  silent  song — 

Hope  was  there,  and  laughed  me  out  of  sadness  ; 

Whispering,  "Winter  will  not  linger  long  !" 

And,  behold  !  with  tenfold  increase  blessing. 
Spring  adorned  the  beauty-burdened  spray  ; 
Wind  and  rain  and  fervent  heat,  caressing. 
Lavished  glory  on  that  second  May  ! 

High  it  rose — no  winged  grief  could  sweep  it ; 
Sin  was  scared  to  distance  with  its  shine  ; 


VIEWS    OF    LIFE.  141 

Love,  and  its  own  life,  had  power  to  keep  it 
From  aU  wrong — from  every  blight  but  thine  ! 

Cruel  Death !  The  young  leaves  droop  and  languish ; 
Evening's  gentle  air  may  still  restore — 
No !  the  morning  sunshine  mocks  my  anguish — 
Time,  for  me,  must  never  blossom  more  ! 

Strike  it  down,  that  other  boughs  may  flourish 

Where  that  perished  sapling  used  to  be ; 

Thus,  at  least,  its  moulderir^g  corpse  will  nourish 

That  from  which  it  sprung — Eternity. 

/-^  ^ ., 

Lv^ufcX.   Ellis. 


VIEWS  OF  LIFE. 

When  sinks  my  heart  in  hopeless  gloom, 
And  life  can  show  no  joy  for  me  : 
And  I  behold  a  yawning  tomb. 
Where  bowers  and  palaces  should  be ; 

In  vain  you  talk  of  morbid  dreams  ; 
In  vain  you  gaily  smiling  say, 
That  what  to  me  so  dreary  seems, 
The  healthy  mind  deems  bright  and  gay. 


142  VIEWS   OF    LIFE. 

I  too  have  smiled,  and  thought  like  you, 
But  madly  smiled,  and  falsely  deemed : 
Truth  led  me  to  the  present  view, 
I'm  waking  now— 'twas  then  I  dreamed. 

I  lately  saw  a  sunset  sky. 
And  stood  enraptured  to  behold 
Its  varied  hues  of  glorious  dye  : 
First,  fleecy  clouds  of  shining  gold  ; 

These  blushing  took  a  rosy  hue  ; 
Beneath  them  shone  a  flood  of  green ; 
Nor  less  divine,  the  glorious  blue 
That  smiled  above  them  and  between. 

I  cannot  name  each  lovely  shade ; 

I  cannot  say  hoAV  bright  they  shone ; 

But  one  by  one,  I  saw  them  fade ; 

And  what  remained  when  they  were  gone  ? 

Dull  clouds  remained,  of  sombre  hue, 
And  when  their  borrowed  charm  was  o'er. 
The  azure  sky  had  faded  too, 
That  smiled  so  softly  bright  before. 

So,  gilded  by  the  glow  of  youth. 
Our  varied  life  looks  fair  and  gay ; 
And  so  remains  the  naked  truth, 
When  that  false  light  is  passed  away. 


VIEWS   OF    LIFE.  143 

Why  blame  ye,  then,  my  keener  sight, 
That  dearly  sees  a  world  of  woes. 
Through  all  the  haze  of  golden  light. 
That  flattering  Falsehood  round  it  throws  ? 

When  the  young  mother  smiles  above 
The  first-born  darling  of  her  heart. 
Her  bosom  glows  with  earnest  love, 
While  tears  of  silent  transport  start. 

Fond  dreamer !  little  does  she  know 
The  anxious  toil,  the  suffering, 
The  blasted  hopes,  the  burning  woe, 
The  object  of  her  joy  will  bring. 

Her  blinded  eyes  behold  not  now 
What,  soon  or  late,  must  be  his  doom  ; 
The  anguish  that  will  cloud  his  brow, 
The  bed  of  death,  the  dreary  tomb. 

As  little  know  the  youthful  pair, 
In  mutual  love  supremely  blest. 
What  weariness,  and  cold  despair, 
Ere  long,  will  seize  the  aching  breast. 

And,  even,  should  Love  and  Faith  remain, 
(The  greatest  blessings  life  can  show,) 
Amid  adversity  and  pain. 
To  shine,  throughout  with  cheering  glow ; 


144 


VIEWS    OF    LIFE. 


They  do  not  see  how  cruel  Death 
Comes  on,  their  loving  hearts  to  part : 
One  feels  not  now  the  gasping  breath, 
The  rending  of  the  earth-bound  heart, — 

The  soul's  and  body's  agony. 
Ere  she  may  sink  to  her  repose. 
The  sad  survivor  cannot  see 
The  grave  above  his  darling  close ; 

Nor  how,  despairing  and  alone. 
He  then  must  wear  his  life  away ; 
And  linger,  feebly  toiling  on. 
And  fainting,  sink  into  decay. 


Oh,  Youth  may  listen  patiently. 
While  sad  Experience  tells  her  tale  ; 
But  Doubt  sits  smiling  in  his  eye. 
For  ardent  Hope  will  still  prevail ! 

He  hears  how  feeble  Pleasure  dies. 
By  guilt  destroyed,  and  pain  and  woe  ; 
He  turns  to  Hope — and  she  replies, 
"  Beheve  it  not — ^it  is  not  so  !" 

"  Oh,  heed  her  not !"  Experience  says, 
"For  thus  she  whispered  once  to  me; 


VIEWS    OF    LIFE.  145 

She  told  me,  in  my  youthful  days. 

How  glorious  manhood's  prime  would  be. 

When,  in  the  time  of  early  Spring, 
Too  chill  the  winds  that  o'er  me  pass'd, 
She  said,  each  coming  day  would  bring 
A  fairer  heaven,  a  gentler  blast. 

And  when  the  sun  too  seldom  beamed, 
The  sky,  o'ercast,  too  darkly  frowned. 
The  soaking  rain  too  constant  streamed. 
And  mists  too  dreary  gathered  round ; 

She  told  me,  Summer's  glorious  ray 
Would  chase  those  vapours  all  away. 

And  scatter  glories  round ; 
With  sweetest  music  fill  the  trees. 
Load  with  rich  scent  the  gentle  breeze, 

And  strew  with  flowers  the  ground. 

But  when,  beneath  that  scorching  ray, 
I  languished,  weary,  through  the  day. 

While  birds  refused  to  sing. 
Verdure  decayed  from  field  and  tree, 
And  panting  Nature  mourned  with  me 

The  freshness  of  the  Spring. 

*  Wait  but  a  little  while,'  she  said, 

*  Till  Summer's  burning  days  are  fled  ; 

And  Autumn  shall  restore, 


146  VIEWS    OF    LIFE. 

With  golden  riches  of  her  own, 
And  Summer's  glories  mellowed  down, 
The  freshness  you  deplore." 

And  long  1  waited,  but  in  vain  : 
That  freshness  never  came  again, 

Though  Summer  passed  away. 
Though  Autumn's  mists  hung  cold  and  chill. 
And  drooping  nature  languished  still. 

And  sank  into  decay. 

Till  wintry  blasts  foreboding  blew 
Through  leafless  trees — and  then  I  knew 

That  Hope  was  all  a  dream. 
But  thus,  fond  youth,  she  cheated  me ; 
And  she  will  prove  as  false  to  thee. 

Though  sweet  her  words  may  seem." 

Stern  prophet !  Cease  thy  bodings  dire — 
Thou  canst  not  quench  the  ardent  fire 

That  warms  the  breast  of  youth. 
Oh,  let  it  cheer  him  while  it  may, 
And  gently,  gently  die  away — 

Chilled  by  the  damps  of  truth  ! 

Tell  him,  that  earth  is  not  our  rest ; 
Its  joys  are  empty — frail  at  best ; 
And  point  beyond  the  sky. 


VIEWS   OF    LIFE.  147 

But  gleams  of  light  may  reach  us  here  ; 
And  hope  the  roughest  path  can  cheer : 
Then  do  not  bid  it  fly  ! 

Though  hope  may  promise  joys,  that  still 
Unkindly  time  will  ne'er  fulfil ; 

Or,  if  they  come  at  all. 
We  never  find  them  unalloyed, — 
Hurtful  perchance,  or  soon  destroyed, 

They  vanish  or  they  pall ; 

Yet  hope  itself  ^.  brightness  throws 
O'er  all  our  labours  and  our  woes  ; 

While  dark  foreboding  Care 
A  thousand  ills  will  oft  portend, 
That  Providence  may  ne'er  intend 

The  trembling  heart  to  bear. 

Or  if  they  come,  it  oft  appears, 
Our  woes  are  lighter  than  our  fears. 

And  far  more  bravely  borne. 
Then  let  us  not  enhance  our  doom  ; 
But  e'en  in  midnight's  blackest  gloom 

Expect  the  rising  morn. 

Because  the  road  is  rough  and  long. 

Shall  we  despise  the  skylark's  song. 

That  cheers  the  wanderer's  way  ? 


148  VIEWS    OF    LIFE. 

Or  trample  down,  with  reckless  feet, 
The  smiling  flowerets,  bright  and  sweet. 
Because  they  soon  decay  ? 

Pass  pleasant  scenes  unnoticed  by, 
Because  the  next  is  bleak  and  drear ; 
Gr  not  enjoy  a  smiling  sky. 
Because  a  tempest  may  be  near  ? 

No  !  while  we  journey  on  our  way. 
We'll  smile  on  every  lovely  thing ; 
And  ever,  as  they  pass  away. 
To  memory  and  hope  we'll  cling. 

And  though  that  awful  river  flows 
Before  us,  when  the  journey's  past. 
Perchance  of  all  the  pilgrim's  woes 
Most  dreadful — shrink  not — 'tis  the  last ! 

Though  icy  cold,  and  dark,  and  deep ; 
Beyond  it  smiles  that  blessed  shore. 
Where  none  shall  suffer,  none  shall  weep. 
And  bliss  shall  reign  for  evermore  ! 


Acton, 


149 


PARTING.  I 

There's  no  use  in  weeping,  ] 

Though  we  are  condemned  to  part : 
There's  such  a  thing  as  keeping 
A  remembrance  in  one's  heart : 

There's  such  a  thing  as  dwelling  1 

On  the  thought  ourselves  have  nurs'd,  I 

And  with  scorn  and  courage  telling  i 

The  world  to  do  its  worst.  ] 

'■1 

We'll  not  let  its  follies  grieve  us,  ■ 

We'll  just  take  them  as  they  come  ;  I 
And  then  every  day  will  leave  us 

A  merry  laugh  for  home.  i 

When  we've  left  each  friend  and  brother,  j 

When  we're  parted  wide  and  far,  | 

We  will  think  of  one  another,  ^ 

As  even  better  than  we  are.  i 

Every  glorious  sight  above  us,  | 

Every  pleasant  sight  beneath,  \ 

We'll  connect  with  those  that  love  us,  j 
Whom  we  truly  love  till  death ! 

7*  \ 


150  STANZAS. 

In  the  evening,  when  we're  sitting 

By  the  fire  perchance  alone, 

Then  sh^ll  heart  with  warm  heart  meeting, 

Give  responsive  tone  for  tone. 

We  can  burst  the  bonds  which  chain  us, 
Which  cold  human  hands  have  wrought, 
And  where  none  shall  dare  restrain  us 
We  can  meet  again,  in  thought. 

So  there's  no  use  in  weepings 
Bear  a  cheerful  spirit  still ; 
Never  doubt  that  Fate  is  keeping 
Future  good  for  present  ill ! 

CURRER. 


STANZAS  TO 


Well,  some  may  hate,  and  some  may  scorn, 
And  some  may  quite  forget  thy  name 
But  my  sad  heart  must  ever  mourn 
Thy  ruined  hopes,  thy  bhghted  fame 
'Twas  thus  I  thought,  an  hour  ago. 
Even  weeping  o'er  that  wretch's  woe  ; 


151 


One  word  turned  back  my  gushing  tears, 
And  lit  my  altered  eye  with  sneers. 
Then  "  Bless  the  friendly  dust,"  I  said, 
"  That  hides  thy  unlamented  head  ! 
Vain  as  thou  wert,  and  weak  as  vain, 
The  slave  of  Falsehood,  Pride,  and  Pain, — 
My  heart  has  nought  akin  to  thine ; 
Thy  soul  is  powerless  over  mine." 

But  these  were  thoughts  that  vanished  too ; 
Unwise,  unholy,  and  untrue : 
Do  I  despise  the  timid  deer, 
Because  his  limbs  are  fleet  with  fear  ? 
Or,  would  I  mock  the  wolfs  death-howl. 
Because  his  form  is  gaunt  and  foul  ? 
Or,  hear  with  joy  the  leveret's  cry. 
Because  it  cannot  bravely  die  ? 
No !     Then  above  his  memory 
Let  Pity's  heart  as  tender  be  ; 
Say,  "  Earth,  lie  lightly  on  that  breast. 
And,  kind  Heaven,  grant  that  spirit  rest !" 


Ellis. 


152 


APPEAL. 


Oh,  I  am  very  weary, 

Though  tears  no  longer  flow  ; 
My  eyes  are  tired  of  weeping, 

My  heart  is  sick  of  woe  ; 

My  life  is  very  lonely. 

My  days  pass  heavily, 
I'm  weary  of  repining. 

Wilt  thou  not  come  to  me  ? 

Oh,  didst  thou  know  my  longings 
For  thee,  from  day  to  day. 

My  hopes,  so  often  blighted, 
Thou  wouldst  not  thus  delay  ! 


Acton. 


HONOUR'S  MARTYR. 

The  moon  is  full  this  winter  night ; 

The  stars  are  clear  though  few ; 
And  every  window  glistens  bright, 

With  leaves  of  frozen  dew. 


honour's  martyr.  11^ 

The  sweet  moon  through  your  lattice  gleams 

And  lights  your  room  like  day ; 
And  there  you  pass,  in  happy  dreams. 

The  peaceful  hours  away  ! 

While  I,  with  effort  hardly  quelling 

The  anguish  in  my  breast, 
Wander  about  the  silent  dwelling, 

And  cannot  think  of  rest. 

The  old  clock  in  the  gloomy  hall 

Ticks  on,  from  hour  to  hour ; 
And  every  time  its  measured  call 

Seems  lingering  slow  and  slower : 

And,  oh,  how  slow  that  keen-eyed  star 

Has  tracked  the  chilly  grey  ! 
What,  watching  yet !  how  very  far 

The  morning  lies  away  ! 

Without  your  chamber  door  I  stand ; 

Love,  are  you  slumbering  still  ? 
My  cold  heart,  underneath  my  hand, 

Has  almost  ceased  to  thrill. 

Bleak,  bleak  the  east  wind  sobs  and  sighs, 

And  drowns  the  turret  bell, 
Whose  sad  note,  undistinguished,  dies 

Unheard,  like  my  farewell  1 


154  honour's  martyr. 

To-morrow,  Scorn  will  blight  my  name, 

And  Hate  will  trample  me, 
Will  load  me  with  a  coward's  shame — 

A  traitor's  perjury. 

False  friends  will  launch  their  covert  sneers ; 

True  friends  will  wish  me  dead ; 
And  I  shall  cause  the  bitterest  tears 

That  you  have  ever  shed. 

The  dark  deeds  of  my  outlawed  race 

Will  then  like  virtues  shine  ; 
And  men  will  pardon  their  disgrace. 

Beside  the  guilt  of  mine. 

For,  who  forgives  the  accursed  crime 

Of  dastard  treachery  ? 
Rebellion,  in  its  chosen  time, 

May  Freedom's  champion  be  ; 

Revenge  may  stain  a  righteous  sword. 

It  may  be  just  to  slay ; 
But,  traitor,  traitor, — from  that  word 

All  true  breasts  shrink  away  I 

Oh,  I  would  give  my  heart  to  death. 

To  keep  my  honour  fair  ; 
Yet,  I'll  not  give  my  inward  faith 

My  honour's  name  to  spare  ! 


THE  student's  SERENADE.         155 

Not  even  to  keep  your  priceless  love, 

Dare  I,  Beloved,  deceive ; 
This  treason  should  the  future  prove, 

Then,  only  then,  believe  ! 

I  know  the  path  I  ought  to  go ; 

I  follow  fearlessly. 
Inquiring  not  what  deeper  woe 

Stern  duty  stores  for  me. 

So  foes  pursue,  and  cold  allies 

Mistrust  me,  every  one  : 
Let  me  be  false  in  others'  eyes, 

If  faithful  in  my  own. 

Ellis. 


THE  STUDENT'S  SERENADE. 

I  HAVE  slept  upon  my  couch, 
But  my  spirit  did  not  rest. 
For  the  labours  of  the  day 
Yet  my  weary  soul  opprest ; 


156  THE  student's  serenade. 

And,  before  my  dreaming  eyes 
Still  the  learned  volumes  lay, 
And  I  could  not  close  their  leaves. 
And  I  could  not  turn  away. 

But  I  oped  my  eyes  at  last. 
And  I  heard  a  muffled  sound ; 
'Twas  the  night-breeze,  come  to  say 
That  the  snow  was  on  the  ground. 

Then  I  knew  that  there  was  rest 
On  the  mountain's  bosom  free  ; 
So  I  left  my  fevered  couch. 
And  I  flew  to  waken  thee  I 

I  have  flown  to  waken  thee — 
For,  if  thou  wilt  not  arise, 
.    Then  my  soul  can  drink  no  peace 
From  these  holy  moonlight  skies. 

And,  this  waste  of  virgin  snow 
To  my  sight  will  not  be  fair, 
Unless  thou  wilt  smiling  come. 
Love,  to  wander  with  me  there. 

Then,  awake  !  Maria,  wake  1 
For,  if  thou  couldst  only  know 
How  the  quiet  moonhght  sleeps 
On  this  wilderness  of  snow. 


APOSTASY.  157  I 


And  the  groves  of  ancient  trees, 
In  their  snowy  garb  arrayed, 
Till  they  stretch  into  the  gloom 
Of  the  distant  valley's  shade  ; 

I  know  thou  wouldst  rejoice 

To  inhale  this  bracing  air ; 

Thou  wouldst  break  thy  sweetest  sleep 

To  behold  a  scene  so  fair. 

O'er  these  wintry  wilds,  alone, 
Thou  wouldst  joy  to  wander  free; 
And  it  will  not  please  thee  less, 
Though  that  bliss  be  shared  with  me. 


Acton. 


APOSTASY. 

This  last  denial  of  my  faith. 

Thou,  solemn  Priest,  hast  heard ; 
And,  though  upon  my  bed  of  death, 

I  call  not  back  a  word. 
Point  not  to  thy  Madonna,  Priest, — 

Thy  sightless  saint  of  stone  ; 
She  cannot,  from  this  burning  breast, 

Wring  one  repentant  moan. 
8 


158  APOSTASY. 

Thou  say'st,  that  when  a  sinless  child, 

I  duly  bent  the  knee, 
And  prayed  to  what  in  marble  smiled 

Cold,  lifeless,  mute,  on  me. 
I  did.     But  listen  !     Children  spring 

Full  soon  to  riper  youth  ; 
And,  for  Love's  vow  and  Wedlock's  ring, 

I  sold  my  early  truth. 

'Twas  not  a  grey,  bare  head,  like  thine. 

Bent  o'er  me,  when  I  said, 
"  That  land  and  God  and  Faith  are  mine. 

For  which  thy  fathers  bled." 
I  see  thee  not,  my  eyes  are  dim ; 

But,  well  I  hear  thee  say, 
"  O  daughter,  cease  to  think  of  him 

Who  led  thy  soul  astray. 

Between  you  lies  both  space  and  time ; 

Let  leagues  and  years  prevail 
To  turn  thee  from  the  path  of  crime. 

Back  to  the  Church's  pale." 
And,  did  I  need  that  thou  shouldst  tell 

What  mighty  barriers  rise 
To  part  me  from  that  dungeon-cell. 

Where  my  loved  Walter  lies  ? 

And,  did  I  need  that  thou  shouldst  taunt 

My  dying  hour  at  last, 
By  bidding  this  worn  spirit  pant 

No  more  for  what  is  past  ? 


APOSTASY.  150 

Priest — must  I  cease  to  think  of  him  ? 

How  hollow  rings  that  word ! 
Can  time,  can  tears,  can  distance  dim 

The  memory  of  my  lord  ? 

I  said  before,  I  saw  not  thee, 

Because,  an  hour  agone. 
Over  my  eye-balls,  heavily. 

The  lids  fell  down  like  stone. 
But  still  my  spirit's  inward  sight 

Beholds  his  image  beam 
As  fixed,  as  clear,  as  burning  bright, 

As  some  red  planet's  gleam. 

Talk  not  of  thy  Last  Sacrament, 

Tell  not  thy  beads  for  me  ; 
Both  rite  and  prayer  are  vainly  spent. 

As  dews  upon  the  sea. 
Speak  not  one  word  of  Heaven  above. 

Rave  not  of  Hell's  alarms  ; 
Give  me  but  back  my  Walter's  love, 

Restore  me  to  his  arms  ! 

Then  will  the  bliss  of  Heaven  be  won  ; 

Then  will  Hell  shrink  away. 
As  I  have  seen  night's  terrors  shun 

The  conquering  steps  of  day. 
'Tis  my  religion  thus  to  love. 

My  creed  thus  fixed  to  be  ; 
Not  Death  shall  shake,  nor  Priestcraft  break 

My  rock-like  constancy! 


160  STANZAS. 

Now  go ;  for  at  the  door  there  waits 

Another  stranger  guest : 
He  calls — I  come — my  pulse  scarce  beats, 

My  heart  fails  in  my  breast. 
Again  that  voice — how  far  away, 

How  dreary  sounds  that  tone  ! 
And  I,  methinks,  am  gone  astray 

In  trackless  wastes  and  lone. 

I  fain  would  rest  a  little  while : 

Where  can  I  find  a  stay, 
Till  dawn  upon  the  hills  shall  smile. 

And  show  some  trodden  way  ? 
"  I  come  !  I  come  !"  in  haste  she  said, 

"  'Twas  Walter's  voice  I  heard  !" 
Then  up  she  sprang — but  fell  back,  dead. 

His  name  her  latest  word. 


CURRER. 


STANZAS. 


I'll  not  weep  that  thou  art  going  to  leave  me, 

There's  nothing  lovely  here  ; 
And  doubly  will  the  dark  world  grieve  me. 

While  thy  heart  suffers  there. 

I'll  not  weep  because  the  summer's  glory 
Must  always  end  in  gloom ; 


THE    CAPTIVE    DOVE.  101 


And,  follow  out  the  happiest  story- 
It  closes  with  the  tomb  ! 

And  I  am  weary  of  the  anguish 

Increasing  winters  bear ; 
Weary  to  watch  the  spirit  languish 

Through  years  of  dead  despair. 

So,  if  a  tear,  when  thou  art  dying, 
Should  haply  fall  from  me. 

It  is  but  that  my  soul  is  sighing, 
To  go  and  rest  with  thee. 


Ellis. 


THE  CAPTIVE  DOVE. 

\ 

Poor  restless  dove,  I  pity  thee  ; 
And  when  I  hear  thy  plaintive  moan, 
I  mourn  for  thy  captivity. 
And  in  thy  woes  forget  mine  own. 

To  see  thee  stand  prepared  to  fly. 
And  flap  those  useless  wings  of  thine. 
And  gaze  into  the  distant  sky. 
Would  melt  a  harder  heart  than  mine. 

In  vain — in  vain  !     Thou  canst  not  rise  : 
Thy  prison  roof  confines  thee  there  ; 
Its  slender  wires  delude  thine  eyes, 
And  quench  thy  longings  with  despair. 


162  WINTER    STORES. 

Oh,  thou  wert  made  to  wander  free 
In  sunny  mead  and  shady  grove, 
And,  far  beyond  the  rolling  sea, 
In  distant  climes,  at  will  to  rove  ! 

Yet,  hadst  thou  but  one  gentle  mate 
Thy  little  drooping  heart  to  cheer, 
And  share  with  thee  thy  captive  state. 
Thou  couldst  be  happy  even  there. 

Yes,  even  there,  if,  hstening  by. 
One  faithful  dear  companion  stood, 
While  gazing  on  her  full  black  eye, 
Thou  mightst  forget  thy  native  wood. 

But  thou,  poor  soHtary  dove, 
Must  make,  unheard,  thy  joyless  moan ; 
The  heart,  that  Nature  formed  to  love. 
Must  pine,  neglected  and  alone. 


Acton. 


WINTER  STORES. 

We  take  from  life  one  little  share. 
And  say  that  this  shall  be 

A  space  redeemed  from  toil  and  care. 
From  tears  and  sadness  free. 


WINTER   STORES. 

And,  haply,  Death  unstrings  his  bow 

And  Sorrow  stands  apart. 
And,  for  a  little  while,  we  know 

The  sunshine  of  the  heart. 

Existence  seems  a  summer  eve. 
Warm,  soft,  and  full  of  peace  ; 

Our  free,  unfettered  feelings  give 
The  soul  its  full  release. 

A  moment,  then,  it  takes  the  power. 
To  call  up  thoughts  that  throw 

Around  that  charmed  and  hallowed  hour. 
This  life's  divinest  glow. 

But  Time,  though  viewlessly  it  flies, 

And  slowly,  will  not  stay  ; 
Alike,  through  clear  and  clouded  skies, 

It  cleaves  its  silent  way. 

Alike  the  bitter  cup  of  grief, 

Alike  the  draught  of  bliss, 
Its  progress  leaves  but  moment  brief 

For  baffled  lips  to  kiss. 

The  sparkhng  draught  is  dried  away, 

The  hour  of  rest  is  gone. 
And  urgent  voices,  round  us,  say, 

"  Ho,  lingerer,  hasten  on  !" 


1(5:^ 


164  WINTER   STORES. 

And  has  the  soul,  then,  only  gained, 

From  this  brief  time  of  ease, 
A  moment's  rest,  when  overstrained, 

One  hurried  glimpse  of  peace  ? 

No ;  while  the  sun  shone  kindly  o'er  us, 
And  flowers  bloomed  round  our  feet, — 

While  many  a  bud  of  joy  before  us 
Unclosed  its  petals  sweet, — 

An  unseen  work  within  was  plying ; 

Like  honey-seeking  bee, 
From  flower  to  flower,  unwearied,  flying, 

Laboured  one  faculty, — 

Thoughtful  for  Winter's  future  sorrow. 

Its  gloom  and  scarcity  ; 
Prescient  to-day,  of  want  to-morrow. 

Toiled  quiet  Memory. 

'Tis  she  that  from  each  transient  pleasure 

Extracts  a  lasting  good  ; 
'Tis  she  that  finds,  in  summer,  treasure 

To  serve  for  winter's  food. 

And  when  Youth's  summer  day  is  vanished. 
And  Age  brings  Winter's  stress, 

Her  stores,  with  hoarded  sweets  replenished, 
Life's  evening  hours  will  bless. 

CURRER. 


165 


MY  COMFORTER. 

Well  hast  thou  spoken,  and  yet,  not  taught 

A  feeling  strange  or  new ; 
Thou  hast  but  roused  a  latent  thought, 
A  cloud-closed  beam  of  sunshine,  brought 

To  gleam  in  open  view. 

Deep  down,  concealed  within  my  soul, 

That  light  lies  hid  from  men : 
Yet,  glows  unquenched — though  shadows  roll, 
Its  gentle  ray  cannot  control. 

About  the  sullen  den. 

Was  I  not  vexed,  in  these  gloomy  ways 

To  walk  alone  so  long  ? 
Around  me,  wretches  uttering  praise, 
Or  howling  o'er  their  hopeless  days. 

And  each  with  Frenzy's  tongue  ; — 

A  brotherhood  of  misery, 

Their  smiles  as  sad  as  sighs  ; 
Whose  madness  daily  maddened  me, 
Distorting  into  agony 

The  bliss  before  my  eyes  ! 

So  stood  I,  in  Heaven's  glorious  sun, 
And  in  the  glare  of  Hell ; 


166  SELF-CONGRATULATION. 

My  spirit  drank  a  mingled  tone, 
Of  seraph's  song,  and  demon's  moan  ; 
What  my  soul  bore,  my  soul  alone 
Within  itself  may  tell ! 

Like  a  soft  air,  above  a  sea, 
Tossed  by  the  tempest's  stir ; 

A  thaw-wind,  melting  quietly 

The  snow-drift,  on  some  wintry  lea ; 

No:  what  sweet  thing  resembles  thee, 
My  thoughtful  Comforter  ? 

And  yet  a  little  longer  speak, 

Calm  this  resentful  mood  ; 
And  while  the  savage  heart  grows  meek, 
For  other  token  do  not  seek. 
But  let  the  tear  upon  my  cheek 

Evince  my  gratitude  ! 


Ellis. 


SELF-CONGRATULATION. 

Ellen,  you  were  thoughtless  once 

Of  beauty  or  of  grace. 
Simple  and  homely  in  attire, 

Careless  of  form  and  face  ; 


SELF-CONGRATULATION.  167 

Then  whence  this  change  ?  and  wherefore  now 

So  often  smooth  your  hair  ? 
And  wherefore  deck  your  youthful  form 

With  such  unwearied  care  ? 

Tell  us — and  cease  to  tire  our  ears 

With  that  familiar  strain — 
Why  will  you  play  those  simple  tunes 

So  often,  o'er  again  ? 
"  Indeed,  dear  friends,  I  can  but  say 

That  childhood's  thoughts  are  gone  ; 
Each  year  its  own  new  feelings  brings, 

And  years  move  swiftly  on : 

"  And  for  these  little  simple  airs — 

I  love  to  play  them  o'er 
So  much — I  dare  not  promise,  now, 

To  play  them  never  more." 
I  answered-— and  it  was  enough  ; 

They  turned  them  to  depart ; 
They  could  not  read  my  secret  thoughts, 

Nor  see  my  throbbing  heart. 

I've  noticed  many  a  youthful  form, 

Upon  whose  changeful  face 
The  inmost  workings  of  the  soul 

The  gazer  well  might  trace  ; 
The  speaking  eye,  the  changing  lip, 

The  ready  blushing  cheek. 
The  smiling,  or  beclouded  brow, 

Their  different  feelings  speak. 


168  SELF-CONGRATULATION. 

But,  thank  God  !  you  might  gaze  on  mine 

For  hours,  and  never  know 
The  secret  changes  of  my  soul 

From  joy  to  keenest  woe. 
Last  night,  as  we  sat  round  the  fire 

Conversing  merrily, 
We  heard,  without,  approaching  steps 

Of  one  well  known  to  me  ! 

There  was  no  trembhng  in  my  voice, 

No  blush  upon  my  cheek, 
No  lustrous  sparkle  in  my  eyes, 

Of  hope,  or  joy,  to  speak  ; 
But,  oh  !  my  spirit  burned  within, 

My  heart  beat  full  and  fast ! 
He  came  not  nigh — he  went  away — 

And  then  my  joy  was  past. 

And  yet  my  comrades  marked  it  not : 

My  voice  was  still  the  same  ; 
They  saw  me  smile  ;  and  o'er  my  face 

No  signs  of  sadness  came. 
They  httle  knew  my  hidden  thoughts  ; 

And  they  will  never  know 
The  aching  anguish  of  my  heart, 

The  bitter  burning  woe  ! 


Acton, 


169 


THE  MISSIONARY. 

Plough,  vessel,  plough  the  British  main, 
Seek  the  free  ocean's  wider  plain ; 
Leave  English  scenes  and  English  skies. 
Unbind,  dissever  English  ties  ; 
Bear  me  to  climes  remote  and  strange. 
Where  altered  life,  fast-following  change. 
Hot  action,  never-ceasing  toil. 
Shall  stir,  turn,  dig,  the  spirit's  soil ; 
Fresh  roots  shall  plant,  fresh  seed  shall  sow. 
Till  a  new  garden  there  shall  grow. 
Cleared  of  the  weeds  that  fill  it  now, — 
Mere  human  love,  mere  selfish  yearning, 
Which,  cherished,  would  arrest  me  yet.    i 
I  grasp  the  plough,  there's  no  returning, 
Let  me,  then,  struggle  to  forget. 

But  England's  shores  are  yet  in  view, 
And  England's  skies  of  tender  blue 
Are  arched  above  her  guardian  sea. 
I  cannot  yet  Remembrance  flee  ; 
I  must  again,  then,  firmly  face 
That  task  of  anguish,  to  retrace. 
Wedded  to  home — I  home  forsake. 
Fearful  of  change — I  changes  make  ; 
Too  fond  of  ease — I  plunge  in  toil ; 
Lover  of  calm — I  seek  turmoil : 

'         ^  '  ■''        ^  /  i        f^  ! 


170  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Nature  and  hostile  Destiny- 
Stir  in  my  heart  a  conflict  wild  ; 
And  long  and  fierce  the  war  will  be 
Ere  duty  both  has  reconciled. 

What  other  tie  yet  holds  me  fast 

To  the  divorced,  abandoned  past  ? 

Smouldering,  on  my  heart's  altar  lies 

The  fire  of  some  great  sacrifice. 

Not  yet  half  quenched.     The  sacred  steel 

But  lately  struck  my  carnal  will. 

My  life-long  hope,  first  joy  and  last, 

What  I  loved  well,  and  clung  to  fast ; 

What  I  wished  w^ildly  to  retain, 

What  I  renounced  with  soul-felt  pain ; 

What — when  I  saw  it,  axe-struck,  perish — 

Left  me  no  joy  on  earth  to  cherish  ; 

A  man  bereft — yet  sternly  now 

I  do  confirm  that  Jephtha  vow ; 

Shall  I  retract,  or  fear,  or  flee  ? 

Did  Christ,  when  rose  the  fatal  tree 

Before  him,  on  Mount  Calvary? 

'Twas  a  long  fight,  hard  fought,  but  won, 

And  what  I  did  was  justly  done. 

Yet,  Helen  !  from  thy  love  I  turned, 
When  my  heart  most  for  thy  heart  burned  ; 
I  dared  thy  tears,  I  dared  thy  scorn- 
Easier  the  death-pang  had  been  borne. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  171 

Helen !  thou  mightst  not  go  with  me, 

I  could  not — dared  not  stay  for  thee  ! 

I  heard,  afar,  in  bonds  complain 

The  savage  from  beyond  the  main ; 

And  that  wild  sound  rose  o'er  the  cry 

Wrung  out  by  passion's  agony  ; 

And  even  when,  with  the  bitterest  tear 

I  ever  shed,  mine  eyes  were  dim, 

Still,  with  the  spirit's  vision  clear, 

I  saw  Hell's  empire,  vast  and  grim. 

Spread  on  each  Indian  river's  shore, 

Each  realm  of  Asia  covering  o'er. 

There,  the  weak,  trampled  by  the  strong, 

Live  but  to  suffer — hopeless  die  ; 

There  pagan-priests,  whose  creed  is  Wrong, 

Extortion,  Lust,  and  Cruelty, 

Crush  our  lost  race — and  brimming  fill 

The  bitter  cup  of  human  ill ; 

And  I — who  have  the  healing  creed. 

The  faith  benign  of  Mary's  Son  ; 

Shall  I  behold  my  brother's  need 

And,  selfishly,  to  aid  him  shun  ? 

I — who  upon  my  mother's  knees. 

In  childhood,  read  Christ's  written  word, 

Received  his  legacy  of  peace. 

His  holy  rule  of  action  heard  ; 

I — in  whose  heart  the  sacred  sense 

Of  Jesus'  love  was  early  felt ; 

Of  his  pure  full  benevolence. 

His  pitying  tenderness  for  guilt ; 


172  THE    MISSIONARY. 

His  shepherd-care  for  wandering  sheep, 

For  all  weak,  sorrowing,  trembling  things. 

His  mercy  vast,  his  passion  deep 

Of  anguish  for  man's  sufferings  ; 

I — schooled  from  childhood  in  such  lore — 

Dared  I  draw  back  or  hesitate, 

When  called  to  heal  the  sickness  sore 

Of  those  far  off  and  desolate  ? 

Dark,  in  the  realm  and  shades  of  Death, 

Nations  and  tribes  and  empires  lie. 

But  even  to  them  the  light  of  Faith 

Is  breaking  on  their  sombre  sky  : 

And  be  it  mine  to  bid  them  raise 

Their  drooped  heads  to  the  kindling  scene. 

And  know  and  hail  the  sunrise  blaze 

Which  heralds  Christ  the  Nazarene. 

I  know  how  Hell  the  veil  will  spread 

Over  their  brows  and  filmy  eyes, 

And  earthward  crush  the  lifted  head 

That  would  look  up  and  seek  the  skies  ; 

I  know  what  war  the  fiend  will  wage 

Against  that  soldier  of  the  cross, 

Who  comes  to  dare  his  demon-rage, 

And  work  his  kingdom  shame  and  loss. 

Yes,  hard  and  terrible  the  toil 

Of  him  who  steps  on  foreign  soil, 

Resolved  to  plant  the  gospel  vine. 

Where  tyrants  rule  and  slaves  repine ; 

Eager  to  lift  Religion's  light 


THE    MISSIONARY.  173 

Where  thickest  shades  of  mental  night 
Screen  the  false  god  and  fiendish  rite ; 
Reckless  that  missionary  blood, 
Shed  in  wild  wilderness  and  wood, 
Has  left,  upon  the  unblest  air. 
The  man's  deep  moan — the  martyr's  prayer. 
I  know  my  lot — I  only  ask 
Power  to  fulfil  the  glorious  task ; 
(Willing  the  spirit,  niay  the  flesh 
Strength  for  the  day  receive  afresh. 
May  burning  sun  or  deadly  wind 
Prevail  not  o'er  an  earnest  mind ; 
May  torments  strange  or  direst  death 
Nor  trample  truth,  nor  baffle  faith. 
Though  such  blood-drops  should  fall  from  me 
As  fell  in  old  Gethsemane, 
Welcome  the  anguish,  so  it  gave 
More  strength  to  work — more  skill  to  save. 
And,  oh  !  if  brief  must  be  my  time. 
If  hostile  hand  or  fatal  clime 
Cut  short  my  course — still  o'er  my  grave. 
Lord,  may  thy  harvest  whitening  wave. 
So  I  the  culture  may  begin. 
Let  others  thrust  the  sickle  in  ; 
If  but  the  seed  will  faster  grow. 
May  my  blood  water  what  I  sow ! 

What !  have  I  ever  trembling  stood. 
And  feared  to  give  to  God  that  blood  ? 

8* 


174  THE    OLD    STOIC. 

What !  has  the  coward  love  of  life 

Made  me  to  shrink  from  the  righteous  strife  ? 

Have  human  passions,  human  fears 

Severed  me  from  those  Pioneers, 

Whose  task  is  to  march  first,  and  trace 

Paths  for  the  progress  of  our  race  ? 

It  has  been  so ;  but  grant  me,  Lord, 

Now  to  stand  steadfast  by  thy  word ! 

Protected  by  salvation's  helm, 

Shielded  by  faith — with  truth  begirt, 

:  To  smile  when  trials  seek  to  whelm, 
And  stand  'mid  testing  fires  unhurt ! 
Hurling  hell's  strongest  bulwarks  down, 

I  Even  when  the  last  pang  thrills  my  breast, 

'  When  Death  bestows  the  Martyr's  crown, 
And  calls  me  into  Jesus'  rest. 

\  Then  for  my  ultimate  reward —  f 

Then  for  the  world-rejoicing  word —  ■  / 

The  voice  from  Father — Spirit— Son  :  ) 

"  Servant  of  God,  well  hast  thou  done  !"        { 


CURRER. 


THE  OLD  STOIC. 

Riches  I  hold  in  light  esteem ; 

And  Love  I  laugh  to  scorn  ; 
And  lust  of  fame  w^as  but  a  dream 

That  vanished  with  the  morn : 


FLUCTUATIONS.  175 

And  if  I  pray,  the  only  prayer 

That  moves  my  lips  for  me 
Is,  "  Leave  the  heart  that  now  I  bear, 

And  give  me  liberty  !" 

Yes,  as  my  swift  days  near  their  goal, 

'Tis  all  that  I  implore  ; 
In  life  and  death,  a  chainless  soul, 

With  courage  to  endure. 

Ellis. 


FLUCTUATIONS. 

What  though  the  Sun  had  left  my  sky ; 

To  save  me  from  despair 
The  blessed  Moon  arose  on  high, 

And  shone  serenely  there. 

I  watched  her,  with  a  tearful  gaze, 

Rise  slowly  o'er  the  hill, 
While  through  the  dim  horizon's  haze 

Her  light  gleamed  faint  and  chill. 

I  thought  such  wan  and  lifeless  beams 

Could  ne'er  my  heart  repay, 
For  the  bright  sun's  most  transient  gleams 

That  cheered  me  through  the  day : 

But  as  above  that  mist's  control 
She  rose,  and  brighter  shone, 


176  FLUCTUATIONS. 

I  felt  her  light  upon  my  soul ; 
But  now — that  light  is  gone  ! 

Thick  vapours  snatched  her  from  my  sight. 

And  I  was  darkling  left, 
All  in  the  cold  and  gloomy  night. 

Of  light  and  hope  bereft : 

Until,  methought,  a  little  star 

Shone  forth  with  trembling  ray. 
To  cheer  me  with  its  light  afar — 

But  that,  too,  passed  away. 

Anon,  an  earthly  meteor  blazed 

The  gloomy  darkness  through ; 
I  smiled,  yet  trembled  while  I  gazed — 

But  that  soon  vanished  too  I 

And  darker,  drearier  fell  the  night 

Upon  my  spirit  then ; — 
But  what  is  that  faint  struggling  light  ? 

Is  it  the  Moon  again  ? 

Kind  Heaven  I  increase  that  silvery  gleam. 

And  bid  these  clouds  depart,    • 
And  let  her  soft  celestial  beam 

Restore  my  fainting  heart  I 

Acton. 


THE    END. 


MISCELLANEOUS  WORKS, 

IN  VARIOUS  DEPARTMENTS  OF  LITERATURE, 

PUBLISHED  BY  LEA  AND  BLANCHAHD. 


ACrrON'S  MODERN  COOKERY,  with  cuts,  12mo,  cloth. 

AMERICAN  ORNITHOLOGY,  by  Prince  Charles  Bonaparte,  in  4  Tols. 
folio,  half  bound,  colored  platps. 

AMERICAN  MILITARY  LAW  AND  PRACTICE  OF  COURTS  MAR- 
TIAL, by  Lieut.  O'Brien,  U.  S.  A.,  1  vol.  8vo,  cloth  or  law  sheep. 

ANSTED'S  ANCIENT  WORLD,  OR  PICTURESaUE  SKETCHES  OF 
CREATION,  1  vol.  12mo,  numerous  cuts. 

ADDISON  ON  CONTRACTS,  1  large  vol.  8vo,  law  sheep. 

ARNOTT'S  ELEMENTS  OF  PHYSICS,  1  vol.  8vo,  sheep,  with  many 
wood-cuts. 

BOZ'S  COMPLETE  WORKS,  in  7  vols.  8vo,  extra  cloth,  with  numerous 

plates. 
Same  work,  common  edition,  in  paper,  8  parts,  price  $3  50. 
Same  work  in  3  large  vols.,  good  paper,  fancy  cloth,  price  $3  75. 
BENTHAMIANA :  Extracts  from  Bentham,  in  1  vol.  12mo. 
BROWNE'S  RELIGIO  MEDICI,  1  vol.  12mo,  extra  cloth. 
BOLMAR'S  FRENCH  SERIES,  consisting  of — 
A  Selection  of  One  Hundred  Perrin's  Fables,  with  a  Key  to  the  Pronon- 

ciation. 
A  Series  of  Colloquial  Phrases. 
The  First  Eight  Books  of  Fenelon's  Telemachus. 
Key  to  the  same. 
A  Treatise  on  all  the  French  Verbs,  Regular  and  Irregular. 

The  whole  forming  five  small  volumes,  half  bound  to  match. 
BUTLER'S  ATLAS  OF  ANCIENT  GEOGRAPHY,  8vo,  half  bound. 
BUTLER'S  GEOGRAPHIA  CLASSICA,  1  vol.  8vo. 
BIRD'S  NATURAL  PHILOSOPHY,  1  vol.  with  many  cuts,  (at  press). 
BRIGHAM  ON  MENTAL  CULTIVATION,  &c.,  12mo,  cloth. 

BRIDGEWATER  TREATISES.  The  whole  complete  in  7  vols.  8vo,  va- 
rious bindings:  containing — 

Rooet's  Animal  and  Vegetable  Physiology,  in  2  vols,  with  many  cuts* 

KiRBY  ON  THE  History,  Habits,  and  Instinct  of  Animals,  1  vol.  with  platee.. 

Proct  on  Chemistry. 

Chalmers  on  the  Moral  Condition  of  Man. 

Whewell  on  Astronomy. 

Bell  on  the  Hand. 

KiDD  ON  the  Physical  Condition  of  Man. 

Bdckland's  Geology,  2  vols,  with  numerous  plates  and  mapg» 
Roget,  Buckland,  and  Kirby  are  sold  separate. 


LEA  AND   BLANCHARd's  MISCELLANEOUS   PUBLICATIONS. 

BROUGHAM  ON  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION,  1  vol.  paper. 

BOY'S  TREASURY  OF  SPORTS  AND  PASTIMES,  1  vol.  18mo,  crimson 
cloth,  400  illustrations. 

BARNABY  RUDGE,  by  "  Boz,"  paper  or  cloth. 

BROWNING'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  HUGUENOTS,  1  vol.  8vo. 

BREWSTER'S  TREATISE  ON  OPTICS,  1  vol.  12mo,  cuts. 

BABBAGE'S  "  FRAGMENT,"  1  vol.  8vo. 

CAMPBELL'S  LIVES  OF  THE  LORD  CHANCELLORS,  3  vols,  crown 
8vo,  extra  cloth. 

CHIMES,  by  Dickens,  plates,  IBmo,  fancy  cloth. 

CHRISTMAS  STORIES— The  Chimes,  Carol,  Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  and 
Battle  of  Life,  together  with  Pictures  from  Italy,  by  Dickens,  1  vol.  8vo, 
paper,  price  37^  cents. 

COMPLETE  COOK,  paper,  price  only  25  cents. 

COMPLETE  CONFECTIONER,  paper,  25  cents. 

COMPLETE  FLORIST,  paper,  25  cents. 

COMPLETE  GARDENER,  paper,  25  cents. 

CURIOSITY  SHOP,  by  "  Boz,"  paper  or  cloth. 

CiESAR'S  COMMENTARIES,  1  vol.  IBmo,  neat  cloth ;  being  vol.  I.  cf 
Schmitz  and  Zumpt's  Classical  Series  for  Schools. 

CAMPBELL'S  COMPLETE  POETICAL  WORKS,  in  1  vol.  crown  8vo, 
cloth  gilt  or  white  calf,  plates. 

COOPER'S  NAVAL  HISTORY  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES,  complete 
in  1  vol.  8vo,  cloth,  with  plates  and  maps. 

COOPER'S  NOVELS  AND  TALES,  in  23  vols,  sheep  gilt,  12mo,  or  47 
vols,  paper. 

COOPER'S  SEA  TALES,  6  vols.  12mo,  cloth. 

COOPER'S  LEATHER  STOCKING  TALES,  5  vols.  12mo,  cloth. 

CARPENTER'S  COMPARATIVE  ANATOMY  AND  PHYSIOLOGY, 
with  numerous  wood-cuts,  (preparing). 

CARPENTER'S  ANIMAL  PHYSIOLOGY,  with  300  wood-cuts,  (pre- 
paring). 

CROLY'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  CHRISTIAN  RELIGION,  to  be  complete 
in  3  vols.,  (at  press). 

CLATER  ON  THE  DISEASES  OF  HORSES,  by  Skinner,  1  vol.  12mo. 

CLATER'S  CATTLE  AND  SHEEP  DOCTOR,  1  vol.  12mo,  cuts. 

CAMPBELL'S  FREDERIC  THE  GREAT,  2  vols.  12mo,  extra  cloth. 

DON  aUIXOTE,  with  numerous  illustrations  by  Johannot;  2  vols., 
(fiearly  ready). 

^  DAVIDSON,  MARGARET,  Memoirs  of  and  Poems,  in  1  vol.  12mo,  paper 
50  cents,  or  extra  cloth. 

DAVIDSON,  LUCRETIA,  Poetical  Remains,  1  vol.  12mo,  paper  50  cents, 
or  extra  cloth. 


LEA   AND   BLANCHARD  S   MISCELLANEOUS   PUBLICATIONS. 


DAVIDSON,  Mrs.,  Poetry  and  Life,  in  1  vol.  12mo,  paper  50  cents,  or  extra 
cloth. 

DANA  ON  CORALS,  1  vol.  royal  4to,  with  Atlas  of  Plates,  (at  press). 

DOMBEY  AND  SON,  by  Dickens,  publishing  in  numbers,  with  two  plates 

each,  at  8  cents. 
Same  work.  Part  I.,  to  be  complete  in  2  parts,  price  25  cents  each. 
DOG  AND  SPORTSMAN,  by  Skinner,  plates,  1  vol.  12rao,  cloth. 
DUNGLISON  ON  HUMAN  HEALTH,  1  vol.  8vo,  cloth  or  sheep. 

ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OP  GEOGRAPHY,  in  3  octavo  vols,  many  cuts  and 
maps,  various  bindings. 

ENCYCLOPAEDIA  AMERICANA,  14  vols.  8vo,  various  bindings. 
Vol.  14,  bringing  the  work  up  to  1846,  sold  separate. 

EAST'S  KING'S  BENCH  REPORTS,  edited  by  G.  M.  Wharton,  16  vols,  in 
8,  large  8vo,  law  sheep. 

EDUCATION  OF  MOTHERS,  1  vol.  12mo,  cloth  or  paper. 

ENDLESS  AMUSEMENT,  neat  18mo,  crimson  cloth,  with  cuts. 

FIELDING'S  SELECT  WORKS,  in  1  vol.  8vo,  cloth,  or  4  parts,  paper. 

FRANCATELLFS  MODERN  FRENCH  COOK,  in  1vol.  8vo,  with  many 
cuts. 

FOWNES'  RECENT  WORK  ON  CHEMISTRY,  second  edition,  by  Bridges, 
1  vol.  12mo,  many  cuts,  sheep  or  extra  cloth. 

GRAHAME'S  COLONIAL  HISTORY   OF  THE  UNITED  STATES,  2 
vols.  8vo,  a  new  edition. 

GRAHAM'S  ELEMENTS  OF  CHEMISTRY,  1  vol.  large  8vo,  many  cuts, 
(new  edition,  in  press). 

GIESELER'S  ECCLESIASTICAL  HISTORY,  3  vols.  8vo. 

GRIFFITHS'  CHEMISTRY  OF  THE   FOUR  SEASONS,  1  vol.  12mo, 
many  cuts. 

GRIFFITH'S  MEDICAL  BOTANY,  1  vol.  large  8vo,  extra  cloth,  nearly 
400  cuts. 

GROTE'S  HISTORY  OF  GREECE,  to  form  a  neat  12mo  series. 

HAWKER  ON  SHOOTING,  Edited  by  Porter,  with  plates  and  cuts,  1  vol. 
8vo,  beautiful  extra  cloth. 

HERSCHELL'S  TREATISE  ON  ASTRONOMY,  1  vol.  12mo,  cuts  and 
plates. 

HALES   ETHNOLOGY  AND  PHILOLOGY  OF  THE  U.  S.  EXPLOR- 
ING EXPEDITION,  1  vol.  royal  4to,  extra  cloth. 

HEMANS'  COMPLETE  POETICAL  WORKS,  in  7  vols.  12mo. 

HEMA^S'  MEMOIRS,  by  her  Sister,  1  vol.  12mo. 

HOLTHOUSE'S  LAW  DICTIONARY,  by  Penington,  1  vol.  large  12mo, 
law  sheep. 

HILLIARD  ON  REAL  ESTATE,  new  and  much  Improved  Edition,  2 
large  vols.  8vo,  law  sheep. 

HILI^  ON  TRUSTEES,  by  Troubat,  1  large  vol.  8vo,  law  sheep. 


LEA   AND   BLANCHARD  S   MISCELLANEOUS   PUBLICATIONS. 


INGERSOLL'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  LATE  WAR,  1  vol.  8vo. 

IRVING'S  ROCKY  MOUNTAINS,  2  vols.  12mo,  cloth. 

JOHNSON'S  DICTIONARY  OF  GARDENING,  by  Landreth,  1  vol.  large 
royal  12mo,  650  pages,  many  cuts. 

KNAPP'S  TECHNOLOGY,  OR  CHEMISTRY  APPLIED  TO  THE  ARTS 
AND  TO  MANUFACTURES.  Translated  and  Edited  by  Ronalds.  In 
1  vol.,  with  numerous  illustrations,  (preparing). 

KEBLE'S  CHRISTIAN  YEAR,  in  32mo,  extra  cloth,  Illuminated  title. 

KIRBY  AND  SPENCE'S  ENTOMOLOGY,  1  large  8vo  vol.  with  plates, 
plain  or  colored. 

LOVER'S  IRISH  STORIES,  1  vol.  royal  12rao,  with  cuts,  extra  cloth. 

Same  work,  paper,  price  50  cents. 

LOVER'S  RORY  O'MORE,  1  vol.  royal  12mo,  with  cuts,  extra  cloth. 

Same  work,  paper,  price  50  cents. 

Same  work,  8vo,  price  25  cents. 

LOVER'S  SONGS  AND  BALLADS,  12mo,  paper,  25  cents. 

LIGHTS,  SHADOWS,  fcc,  of  Whigs  and  Tories,  1  vol.  12mo. 

LANGUAGE  OF  FLOWERS,  eighth  edition,  1  vol.  18mo,  colored  plates, 
crimson  cloth,  gilt. 

LANDRETH'S  RURAL  REGISTER,  for  1848,  royal  12mo,  many  cuts, 
price  15  cents.    Copies  for  1847  still  on  sale. 

LOVES  OF  THE  POETS,  by  Mrs.  Jamieson,  12mo. 

MARSTON,  OR  THE  SOLDIER  AND  STATESMAN,  by  Croly,  8vo, 
sewed,  50  cents. 

MACKINTOSH'S  DISSERTATION  ON  ETHICAL  PHILOSOPHY,  1  vol. 
8vo,  cloth. 

MOORE'S  HISTORY  OF  IRELAND,  in  2  vols.  8vo,  cloth.  Second  volume 
sold  separate. 

MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT,  by  "  Boz,"  cloth  or  paper. 

MULLER'S  PHYSICS  AND  METEOROLOGY,  1  vol.  large  8vo,  2  colored 
plates,  and  550  wood-cuts. 

MILLWRIGHT'S  AND  MILLER'S  GUIDE,  by  Oliver  Evans,  in  1  vol. 
8vo,  sheep,  many  plates. 

METCALF  ON  CALORIC,  1  vol.  8vo,  (at  press). 

MILL'S  HISTORY    OF  THE  CRUSADES,  AND  CHIVALRY,  in  one 

octavo  volume. 

MILL'S  SPORTSMAN'S  LIBRARY,  1  vol.  12mo,  extra  cloth. 

NARRATIVE  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES'  EXPLORING  EXPEDI- 
TION, by  Captain  Charles  Wilkes,  U.  S.  N.,  in  6  vols.  4to,  $60;  or  6  vols, 
imperial  8vo,  $25,  with  very  Numerous  and  Beautiful  Illustrations,  on 
wood,  copper,  and  steel;  or  5  vols.  8vo,  $10,  with  over  three  hundred 
wood-cuts  and  maps. 

NIEBUHR'S  HISTORY  OF  ROME,  complete,  2  large  vols.  8vo. 

NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY,  by  "  Boz,"  cloth  or  paper.  » 


LEA   AND   BLANCHARD  S   MISCELLANEOUS   PUBLICATIONS. 

OLIVER  TWIST,  by  "  Boz,"  cloth  or  paper. 

PICCIOLA,  — The  Prisoner  of  Fenestrella,  illustrated  edition,  with  cuts, 

royal  I2nio,  beautiful  crimson  cloth. 
Same  work,  fancy  paper,  price  50  cents. 

PHILOSOPHY   IN    SPORT    MADE    SCIENCE   IN    EARNEST,   1  vol. 
18uio,  neat  crimson  cloth,  with  cuts. 

POPULAR   VEGETABLE   PHYSIOLOGY,  by  Carpenter,  1  vol.  12mo, 
many  cuts. 

PICKWICK  CLUB,  by  "  Boz,"  cloth  or  paper. 

RUSH'S  COURT  OF  LONDON,  1  vol.  8vo. 

RANKE'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  POPES  OF  ROME,  1  vol.  8vo,  cloth. 

RANKE'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  REFORMATION  IN  GERMANY,  to  be 
complete  in  1  vol.  8vo. 

RANKE'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  OTTOMAN  AND  SPANISH  EMPIRES. 

8vo,  price  50  cents. 

ROGERS'  POEMS,  a  splendid  edition.  Illustrated,  imperial  8vo. 

ROGET'S  OUTLINES  OF  PHYSIOLOGY,  1  vol.  8vo. 

ROSCOE'S  LIVES  OF  THE  KINGS  OF  ENGLAND,  a  12mo  Series  to 
match  Miss  Strickland's  dueens. 

STRICKLAND'S  LIVES   OF  THE  aUEENS  OF  ENGLAND,  10  vols. 
12mo,  cloth  or  paper. 

Same  work,  crown  8vo,  extra  cloth,  two  vols,  in  one ;  large  type,  and  fine 
paper,  beautiful  crimson  cloth. 

SELECT  WORKS  OF  TOBIAS  SMOLLETT,  cloth  or  paper. 

SIMPSON'S  OVERLAND  JOURNEY  AROUND  THE  WORLD,  crown 

8vo,  extra  cloth. 
Same  work,  2  parts,  paper,  price  $1  50. 
SIBORNE'S  WATERLOO  CAMPAIGN,  with  maps,  1  vol.  large  8vo. 

SCHMITZ   AND  ZUMPT'S  CLASSICAL  SERIES  FOR  SCHOOLS,  in 
neat  18mo  volumes,  in  cloth. 

STABLE  TALK  AND  TABLE  TALK,  FOR  SPORTSMEN,  1  volume, 
12mo. 

SPENCE  ON  THE  JURISDICTION  OP  THE  COURT  OF  CHANCERY, 
vol.  I.,  large  8vo,  law  sheep. 

Vol.  IL,  embracing  the  Practice,  (nearly  ready). 

SMALL  BOOKS  ON  GREAT  SUBJECTS;  a  neat  IBmo  series,  price  25 

cents  each : — 
No.  1.  "  Philosophical  Theories  and  Philosophical  Experience." 
No.  2.  "  On  the  Connection  between  Physiology  and  Intellectual 

Science." 
No.  3.  "  On  Man's   Power  over  himself  to  Prevent  or  Control  In- 
sanity." 
No.  4.  "  An  Introduction  to  Practical  Organic  Chemistry." 
No.  5-  "A  Brief  View  of  Greek  Philosophy  dp  to  the  Age  of  Pe 
eicles." 


LEA   AND   BLANCHARD  S   MISCELLANEOUS   PUBLICATIONS. 


SMALL  BOOKS  ON  GREAT  SUBJECTS  :— 

No.  6.  "  A  Brief  View  of  Greek  Philosophy  from  the  Age  of  Socrates 

TO  THE  Coming  of  Christ." 
No.  7.  "Christian  Doctrine  and  Practice  in  the  Second  Century." 
No.  8.  "  An  Exposition  of  Vulgar  and  Common  Errors,  adapted  to 

THE  Year  of  Grace  1845." 
No.  9.  "  An  Introduction  to  Vegetable  Physiology,  with  References 

TO  the  Works  of  De  Candolle,  Lindley,  &c." 
No.  10.  "  On  the  Principles  op  Criminal  Law." 

No.  11.  "  Christian  Sects  in  the  Nineteenth  Century."  , 

No.  12.  "  Principles  of  Grammar,"  &c. 

Or  the  whole  done  up  in  three  volumes,  extra  cloth. 

TAYLOR'S  MEDICAL  JURISPRUDENCE,  Edited  with  respect  to  Ame- 
rican Practice,  by  Griffith,  1  vol.  8vo. 

TAYLOR'S  TOXICOLOGY,  by  Griffith,  1  vol.  8vo,  (nearly  ready). 

TRAILL'S  OUTLINES  OF  MEDICAL  JURISPRUDENCE,  1  small  vol. 
8vo,  cloth. 

TRIMMER'S  GEOLOGY  AND  MINERALOGY,  1  vol.  8vo,  cloth,  many 
cuts. 

THOMSON'S  DOMESTIC  MANAGEMENT  OF  THE  SICK  ROOM,  1 
v'ol.  12mo,  extra  cloth. 

Tv^K  EAH,  by  Sealsfield,  price  25  cents. 

VIKGILII  CARMINA,  1  neat  18mo  vol.,  extra  cloth,  being  vol.  IL  of 
bchmitz  and  Zumpt's  Classical  Series. 

WALPOLE'S  LETTERS,  in  4  large  vols.  8vo,  extra  cloth. 

WALPOLE'S  NEW  LETTERS  TO  SIR  HORACE  MANN,  2  vols.  8vo. 

WALPOLE'S  MEMOIRS  OF  GEORGE  THE  THIRD,  2  vols.  8vo. 

WHITE'S  UNIVERSAL  HISTORY,  a  new  and  Improved  work  for 
Schools,  Colleges,  &c.,  with  Questions  by  Professor  Hart,  in  1  vol.  large 
12mo,  extra  cloth,  or  half  bound. 

WEISBACH'S  PRINCIPLES  OF  THE  MECHANICS  OF  MACHINERY 
AND  ENGINEERING,  in  2  vols.,  with  five  hundred  cuts,  (preparing). 

WILLIAM  THE  CONQUEROR,  Life  of,  by  Roscoe,  1  vol.  12mo,  extra 
cloth  or  fancy  paper. 

WHEATON'S  INTERNATIONAL  LAW,  1  vol.  large  8vo,  law  sheep,  or 
extra  cloth,  third  edition,  much  improved. 

WRAX  ALL'S  POSTHUMOUS  MEMOIRS,  1  vol.  8vo,  extra  cloth. 

WRAX ALL'S  HISTORICAL  MEMOIRS,  1  vol.  8vo,      do.      do. 

YOU  ATT  ON  THE  HORSE,  &c.,  by  Skinner,  1  vol.  8vo,  many  cuts. 

YOU  ATT  ON  THE  DOG,  with  plates,  1  vol.  crown  8vo,  beautiful  crimson 
cloth. 

YOU  ATT  ON  THE  PIG,  1  vol.  12mo,  extra  cloth,  with  cuts. 
Same  work  in  paper,  price  50  cents. 

Together  with  numerous  works  in  all  departments  of  Medical  Science,  Catalogues 
of  which  can  be  had  ou  apj^lication. 


LEA  AND   BLANCHARD  S  PUBLICATIONS. 

DICKENS'S  WORKS. 

VARIOUS  EDITIONS   AND   PRICES. 


CHEAPEST  EDITION  IN  NINE  PARTS.  PAPER. 

AS  FOLLOWS: 

THE  PICKWICK  PAPERS,  1  large  voL  8vo.,  paper,  price  50  cents. 

OLIVER  TWIST,  1  vol.  8vo.,  paper,  price  25  cents. 

SKETCHES  OF  EVERY-DAY  LIFE,  1  voL  8vo.,  paper,  price  37i  cents. 

NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY,  1  large  vol.  8vo.,  paper,  price  50  cents. 

THE  OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP,  1  vol.  8vo.,  paper,  with  many  Cuts,  price 

50  cents. 
BARNABY  RUDGE,  1  vol.  8vo.,  with  many  Cuts,  price  50  cents. 
MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT,  1  vol.  8vo.,  with  plates,  price  50  cents. 
CHRISTMAS  STORIES.  — The  Carol,  The   Chimes,  The  Cricket  on 

THE  Hearth,  and  The  Battle  of  Life— together  with  Pictures  from 

Italy,  1  vol.  8vo.,  price  37^  cents. 
IX)MBEY  AND  SON,  Part.  I.,  to  be  completed  in  two  Parts,  price  25  cents 

each. 

Forming  a  neat  and  uniform  Edition  of  these  popular  works.  Any  work 
sold  separately. 

ALSO, 
A  UNIFORM  AND  CHEAP  EDITION, 

In  Three  large  and  beautiful  Octavo  Volumes,  done  up  in  Extra  Cloth, 

CONTAINING    ABOUT    TWENTY-TWO     HUNDRED    AND    FIFTY    LARGE    DOUBLK 
COLUMNED    PAGES. 

PRICE  FOR  THE  W^HOLE,  ONLY  THREE  DOLLARS  AND  SEVENTY-FIVE  CENTS. 

This  Edition  comprehends  the  first  seven  parts,  and  will  be  completed  with  the 
issue  of  the  Fourth  Volume,  on  the  completion  of  "  Donibey  and  Son,"  now  in  pro- 
gress of  publication,  containing  that  work,  the  "Christmas  Stories,"  and  "Pictures 
from  Italy."    Purchasers  may  thus  rely  on  being  able  to  perfect  their  sets. 


ALSO,  AN  EDITION  PROFUSELY  ILLUSTRATED  WITH 

ONE  HUNDRED  AND  THIRTY-FOUR  PLATES,  AND 
ONE  HUNDRED  AND  FORTY  WOOD-CUTS. 

In  imperial  octavo,  extra  cloth,  on  fine  white  paper. 

td*  The  above  are  the  only  Complete  and  Uniform  Editions  of  Dickens's 
Works  now  before  the  public. 


NOW  PUBLISHING, 

D01MEBE7  AND  SON. 

FINE  EDITION. 

In  twenty  numbers,  price  8  cents  each,  with  two  illustrations  by  Hablot  K. 
Browne  in  each  number. 

This  is  the  only  edition  which  presents  the  plates  accompanying  the  text  to  which 
they  refer. 


LEA   AND   BLANCH ARd's   PUBLICATIONS. 


UNITED  STATES  EXPLORING  EXPEDITION. 

THE  NARRATIVE  OP  THE 

UNITED  STATES  EXPLORING  EXPEDITION, 

DURING  THE  YEARS  1838,  '39,  '40,  '41,  AND  '42. 
BY  CHARIiKS  WIIiKSS,  K  S  Q.,  U.S.N. 

COMMANDER    OP  Tllfe   EXPEDITION,   ETC. 

PRICE  TWENTY-FIVE  DOLLARS. 
A  New  Edition,  in  Five  Medium  Octavo  Volumes,  neat  Extra  Cloth,  parti- 
cularly done  up  with  reference  to  strength  and  continued  use :  con- 
taining Twenty-six  Hundred  Pages  of  Letter-press.    Il- 
lustrated with  Maps,  and  about  Three  Hundred 
Splendid  Engravings  on  Wood. 
PRICE  ONLY  TSKTO  DOLLARS  A  VOLUME. 
rhe  attention  of  persons  forming  libraries  is  especially  directed  to  this  work,  as  pre- 
senting the  novel  and  valuable  matter  accumulated  by  the  Expedition  in  a  cheap, 
oonvenieot,  and  readable  form. 

SCHOOL  and  other  PUBLIC  LIBRARIES,  should  not  be  without  it,  as  embodying 
the  results  of  the  Furst  Scientific  Expedition  commissioned  by  our  government  to  ex- 
plore foreign  regions. 

"We  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  it  is  destined  to  stand  among  the  most  en- 
during monuments  of  our  national  Uterature.  Its  contributions  not  only  to  every  de- 
partment of  science,  but  every  department  of  history,  are  immense ;  and  there  is  not 
an  intelligent  man  in  the  community— no  matter  what  may  be  his  taste,  or  his  occu- 
pation, but  will  find  something  here  to  enlighten,  to  gratify,  and  to  profit  him." — 
Albany  Religious  Spectator. 


ANOTHER  EDITION. 
PRICE  TWENTY-FIVE  DOLLARS. 

IN  FIVE  MAGNIFICENT  IMPERIAL  OCTAVO  VOLUMES; 

WITH  AN  ATLAS  OF  LARGE  AND  EXTENDED  MAPS. 

BEAUTIFULLY  DONE  UP  IN  EXTRA  CLOTH, 

WITH   OVER   ONE  HUNDRED   SPLENDID   STEEL   ENGRAVINGS. 


ALSO,  A  FEW  COPIES  STILL  ON  HAND. 

THE  EDITION  PRINTED  FOR  CONGRESS, 

IN  FIVE  VOIiUlVIES  AND  AN  ATLAS. 

LARGE  IMPERIAL  aUARTO,  STRONG  EXTRA  CLOTH. 

PRICE  SIXTY  DOLLARS. 


THE  ETHNOGRAPHY  AND  PHILOLOGV  OF  THE  UNITED 
STATES  EXPLORING  EXPEDITION. 

UNDER  THE  COMMAND  OF  CHARLES  WILKES,  ESQ.,  U.  S.  NAVY. 
BY  HORATIO  HALE, 

PHILOLOGIST  TO  THE  EXPEDITION. 

In  one  large  imperial  octavo  volume  of  nearly  seven  hundred  pag:es.    With  two  Maps, 
printed  to  match  the  Congress  copies  of  the  "Narrative." 
Price  Ten  Dollars,  in  beautiful  extra  cloth,  done  up  with  great  strength. 
*»*  This  is  the  only  edition  printed,  and  but  few  are  offered  for  sale. 
The  remainder  of  the  scientific  works  of  the  Expedition  are  in  a  state  of  rapid  pro- 
gress.   The  volume  on  Corals,  by  J.  D.  Dana,  Esq.,  with  an  Atlas  of  Plates,  will  be 
shortly  ready,  to  be  followed  by  the  others. 


LEA  AND   BLANCHARD  S   PUBLICATIONS. 

THE  AMERICAN  ENCYCLOPAEDIA. 

BROUGHT  UP  TO  1847. 


THE  ENCYCLOPiEDIA  AMERICANA: 

A  POPULAR  DICTIONARY 

OF  ARTS,  SCIENCES,  LITERATURE.  HISTORY,  POLITICS, 

AND  BIOGRAPHY. 

m  FOURTEEN  LARGE  OCTAVO  VOLUMES  OF  OVER  SIX  HUNDRED 

DOUBLE  COLUMNED  PAGES  EACH. 

For  sale  very  low,  in  various  styles  of  binding. 

Some  years  having  elapsed  since  the  original  thirteen  volumes  of  the 
ENCYCLOPEDIA  AMERICANA  were  published,  to  bring  it  up  to  the 
present  day,  with  the  history  of  that  period,  at  the  request  of  numerous 
subscribers,  the  publishers  have  just  issued  a 

SUPPLEMENTARY  VOLUME  (THE  FOURTEENTH), 

BRINGING  THE  WORK  UP  TO  THE  YEAR  1847. 

EDITED    BY    HENRY    VETHAKE,    LL.D. 

Vice-Provost  and  Professor  of  Mathematics  in  the  University  of  Pennsylvania,  Author 

of  "A  Treatise  on  Political  Economy." 

In  one  large  octavo  volume  of  over  650  double  columned  pages. 

The  numerous  subscribers  who  have  been  waiting  the  completion  of  this 
volume  can  now  perfect  their  sets,  and  all  who  want 
A  REGISTER  OF  THE  EVENTS  OF  THE  LAST  FIFTEEN  YEARS, 

FOR  THE  WHOLE  WORLD, 
can  obtain  this  volume  separately :  price  Two  Dollars  uncut  in  cloth,  or 
Two  Dollars  and  Fifty  cents  in  leather,  to  match  the  styles  in  which  the 
publishers  have  been  selling  sets. 

Subscribers  in  the  large  cities  can  be  supplied  on  application  at  any  of 
the  principal  bookstores;  and  persons  residing  in  the  country  can  have 
their  sets  matched  by  sending  a  volume  in  charge  of  friends  visiting  the  city. 

"This  volume  is  worth  ovi^ning  by  itself,  as  a  most  convenient  and  reliable  compend 
of  recent  History,  Biography,  Statistics,  <kc.,  &c.  The  entire  work  forms  the  cheapest 
and  probably  now  the  most  desirable  Encyclopaedia  published  for  popular  use." — 
New  York  Tribune. 

"  The  Conversations  Lexicon  (Encyclopaedia  Americana)  has  become  a  household 
book  in  all  the  intelligent  families  in  America,  and  is  undoubtedly  the  best  depository 
of  biographical,  historical,  geographical,  and  political  information  of  that  kind  which 
discriminating  readers  require."— Si/feman's  Journal. 

"  This  volume  of  the  Encyclopsedia  is  a  Westminster  Abbey  of  American  reputation. 
What  names  are  on  the  roll  since  1833  !" — N.  Y.  Literary  World. 

"  The  work  to  which  this  volume  forms  a  supplement,  is  one  of  the  most  important 
contributions  that  has  ever  been  made  to  the  hterature  of  our  country.  Besides  con- 
densing into  a  comparatively  narrow  compass,  the  substance  of  larger  works  of  the 
same  kind  which  had  preceded  it,  it  contams  a  vast  amount  of  information  that  is  not 
elsewhere  to  be  found,  and  is  distinguished,  not  less  for  its  admirable  arrangement, 
than  for  the  variety  of  subjects  of  which  it  treats.  The  present  volume,  which  is 
edited  by  one  of  the  most  distinguished  scholars  of  our  country,  is  worthy  to  follow 
in  the  train  of  those  which  have  preceded  it.  [t  is  a  remarkably  felicitous  condensa- 
tion of  the  more  recent  improvements  in  srience  and  the  arts,  besides  forming  a  very 
important  addition  to  the  department  of  Biography,  the  general  progress  of  society, 
&C.,  &c"—AU)any  Argus. 


LEA  AND   BLANCHARD's   PUBLICATIONS. 

CAMPBELL'S  LOED  CHANCELLORS. 

JUST  PUBLISHED. 


LIVES  OF  THE  LORD  CHANCELLORS  AND  KEEPERS  OF 
THE  GREAT  SEAL  OF  ENGLAND, 

FROM  THE  EARLIEST  TIMES  TO  THE  REIGN  OF  KING  GEORGE  IV., 

BY  JOHN  LORD  CAMPBELL,  A.M.,  F.R.S.E. 

First  Series,  forming  three  neat  volumes  in  demy  octavo,  extra  cloth. 

Bringing  the  work  to  the  time  of  Lord  Jeffries. 

THE  SECOND   SERIES  WILL  SHORTLY  FOLLOW  IN  FOUR  VOLUMES  TO  MATCH. 

*'The  volumes  teem  with  exciting  incidents,  abound  in  portraits,  sketches,  and 
anecdotes,  and  are  at  once  interesting  and  instructive.  The  work  is  not  only  histori- 
cal and  biographical,  but  it  is  anecdotical  and  philosophical.  Many  of  the  chapters 
embody  thrilling  incidents,  while  as  a  whole,  the  publication  may  be  regarded  as  of 
A  high  intellectual  order."— In^wfrcr. 

MURRAY'S  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  GEOGRAPHY.  , 


THE  ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  GEOGRAPHY, 

COMPRISING 

A  COMPLETE  DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  EARTH,  PHYSICAL,  STA- 
TISTICAL, CIVIL,  AND  POLITICAL. 

EXHIBITING 

ITS  RELATION  TO  THE  HEAVENLY  BODIES.  ITS  PHYSICAL  STRUCTURE,  THE 

NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  EACH  COUNTRY,  AND  THE  INDUSTRY, 

COMMERCE,  POLITICAL  INSTITUTIONS,  AND  CIVIL 

AND  SOCIAL  STATE  OF  ALL  NATIONS. 

BY  HUGH  MURRAY,  F.R.S.E.,  &c. 

AasUted  in  Botany  by  Professor  HOOKER  —  Zooloey,  &c.,  by  W.  W.  SWAINSON  —  Astronomy 
&c.,  by  Professor  WALLACE  -  Geology,  &c.,  by  Professor  JAMESON. 

RKVISKD,  WITH  ADDITIONS, 

BY  THOMAS  G.  BRADFORD. 

THE  WHOLE  BROUGHT  UP,  BY  A  SUPPLEMENT,  TO  1843. 

In  three  large  octavo  volumes, 

VARIOUS  STYLES  OF  BINDING. 

This  great  work,  furnished  at  a  remarkably  cheap  rate,  contains  a^ut 
Nineteen  Hundred  large  imperial  Pages,  and  is  illustrated  by  Eightt- 
Two  SMALL  Maps,  and  a  colored  Map  of  the  United  States,  after  Tan- 
ner's, together  with  about  Eleven  Hundred  Wood-Cuts,  executed  in  the 
best  style. 


LEA   AND   BLANCHARD  S   PUBLICATIONS. 


STRICKLAND'S  QUEENS  OF  ENGLAND. 


A  NEW  AND  ELEGANT  EDITION 

OF 

LIVES  OF  THE  QUEENS  OF  ENGLAND, 

FROM  THE  NORMAN  CONaUEST; 

WITH  ANECDOTES    OF  THEIR  COURTS,  NOW   FIRST  PUBLISHED  FROM 
OFFICIAL   RECORDS   AND  OTHER   AUTHENTIC   DOCU- 
MENTS, PRIVATE  AS  WELL  AS  PUBLIC. 

NEW     EDITION,    WITH    ADDITIONS    AND     CORRECTIONS. 

BY  AGNES  STRICKLAND. 

Forming  a  handsome  series  in  crown  octavo,  beautifully  printed  with 

large  type  on  fine  paper,  done  up  in  rich  extra  crimson  cloth, 

and  sold  at  a  cheaper  rate  than  the  former  editions. 

Volume  One,  of  this  edition,  contains  Volumes  I.,  II.,  and  III.,  of  the 
duodecimo  edition ;  Volume  Two,  embraces  Volumes  IV.  and  V. ;  Volume 
Three,  Volumes  VI.  and  VII.;  Volume  Four,  Volumes  VIII.  and  IX.; 
and  Volume  Five  will  contain  Volumes  X.  and  XI.  The  whole  will  thus 
form  an  elegant  set  of  one  of  the  most  popular  histories  of  the  day.  The  pub' 
Ushers  have  gone  to  much  expense  in  preparing  this  from  the  revised  and 
improved  London  edition,  to  meet  the  frequent  inquiries  for  the  "Lives 
of  the  dueens  of  England,"  in  better  style,  larger  type,  and  finer  paper 
than  has  heretofore  been  accessible  to  readers  in  this  country.  Any  volume 
of  this  edition  sold  separately. 

A  few  copies  of  the  duodecimo  edition  still  on  hand.  Ten  volumes  are 
now  ready,  in  fancy  paper,  or  neat  green  extra  cloth. 


JUST  PUBLISHED, 

voiiViMiz:  TISI7: 

CONTAINING 

MARY  OF  MODENA,  AND   MARY  II. 

Price  75  cents  in  fancy  paper.— Also,  in  extra  green  cloth. 

"These  volumes  have  the  fascination  of  a  romance  united  to  the  integrity  of  his- 
tory."— Times. 

"A  most  valuable  and  entertaining  work." — Chronicle. 

"This  interesting  and  well-written  work,  in  which  the  severe  truth  of  history  takes 
almost  the  wildness  of  romance,  will  constitute  a  valuable  addition  to  our  biogra- 
phical literature."— iWominf/  Herald. 

"  A  valuable  contribution  to  historical  knowledge,  to  young  persons  especially.  It 
contains  a  mass  of  every  kind  of  historical  matter  of  interest,  which  industry  and 
research  could  collect.  We  have  derived  much  entertainment  and  instruction  from 
the  work." — Athenceum. 

"  The  execution  of  this  work  is  equal  to  the  conception.  Great  pains  have  been 
taken  to  make  it  both  interesting  and  valuable." — Literary  Gazette.  * 

"A  charming  work  —  full  of  interest,  at  once  serious  and  pleasing."  —  Monsieur 
Guizot. 

"  A  most  charming  biographical  memoir.  We  conclude  by  expressing  our  unquali- 
fied opinion,  that  we  know  of  no  more  valuable  contribution  to  modern  history  thaA 
this  ninth  volume  of  Miss  Strickland's  Lives  of  the  Queens."— iVformVjy  Herald. 


LEA   AND   BLANCHARD  S   PUBLICATIONS. 

DON  QUIXOTE-ILLUSTRATED  EDITION. 

NEARLY   READY. 


DON  QUIXOTE  DE  LA  MANCHA. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF 

MIGUEL  DE  CERVANTES  SAAVEDRA, 

BY  CHARLES  JARVIS,  ESQ. 

CAREFULLY  REVISED  AND  CORRECTED,  WITH  A  MEMOIR  OF  THE  AUTHOR 
AND  A  NOTICE  OF  HIS  WORKS. 

WITH  NUMEROUS  ILLUSTRATIONS, 

BY  TONY  JOHANNOT. 
In  two  beautifully  printed  volumes,  crown  octavo,  rich  extra  crimson  cloth. 

The  publishers  are  happy  in  presenting  to  the  admirers  of  Don  Quixote  an  edition 
of  that  work  in  some  degree  worthy  of  its  reputation  and  popularity.  The  want  of 
such  a  one  has  long  been  felt  in  this  country,  and  in  presenting  this,  they  have  only 
to  express  their  hope  that  it  may  meet  the  numerous  demands  and  inquiries.  The 
translation  is  that  by  Jarvis,  which  is  acknowledged  superior  in  both  force  and  fidelity 
to  all  others.  It  has  in  some  few  instances  been  slightly  altered  to  adapt  it  better  to 
modern  readers,  or  occasionally  to  suit  it  to  the  inimitable  designs  of  Tony  Johannot. 
These  latter  are  admitted  to  be  the  only  successful  pictorial  exponents  of  the  wit  and 
humour  of  Cervantes,  and  a  choice  selection  of  them  have  been  engraved  in  the  best 
manner.  A  copious  memoir  of  the  author  and  his  works  has  been  added  by  the 
editor.  The  volumes  are  printed  in  large  clear  type,  on  fine  paper,  and  handsomely 
bound,  and  the  whole  is  confidently  offered  as  worthy  the  approbation  of  all  readers 
of  this  imperishable  romance. 

PICCIOLA. 

ILLUSTRATED   EDITION. 

PICCIOLA,  THE  PRISONER  OF  FENESTRELLA; 

OR,  CAPTIVITY  CAPTIVE. 
BY  X.  B.  SAINTINE. 

A    NEW    EDITION,    WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS. 

In  one  elegant  duodecimo  volume,  large  type,  and  fine  paper;  price  in  fancy 

covers  50  cents,  or  in  beautiful  extra  crimson  cloth. 

"  Perhaps  the  most  beautiful  and  touching  work  of  fiction  ever  written,  with  the 
exception  of  Undine." — Atlas. 

"  The  same  publishers  have  shown  their  patriotism,  common  sen.se,  and  good  tast« 
by  putting  forth  their  fourth  edition  of  this  work,  with  a  set  of  very  beautiful  engraved 
embellishments.  There  never  was  a  book  which  better  deserved  the  compliment 
It  is  one  of  greatly  superior  merit  to  Paul  and  Virginia,  and  we  believe  it  is  destined 
to  surpass  that  popular  work  of  St.  Pierre  in  popularity.  It  is  better  suited  to  the  ad- 
vanced ideas  of  the  present  age,  and  possesses  peculiar  moral  charms  in  which  Paul 
and  Virginia  is  deficient.  St.  Pierre's  work  derived  its  popularity  from  its  bold  attack 
on  feudal  prejudices;  Saintine's  strikes  deeper,  and  assails  the  secret  infidelity  which 
is  the  bane  of  modern  society,  in  its  stronghold.  A  thousand  editions  of  Picciola  will 
not  be  too  many  for  its  merit." — Lady's  Book. 

"This  is  a  little  gem  of  its  kind  —  a  beautiful  conceit,  beautifully  unfolded  and  aj>- 
plied.  The  style  and  plot  of  this  truly  charming  story  require  no  criticism  ;  we  will 
only  express  the  wish  that  those  who  rely  on  works  of  fiction  for  their  intellectual  food, 
may  always  find  those  as  pure  in  language  and  beautiful  in  mural  as  Picciola."— iVeto 
York  Reoiew. 


LEA    AND    BLANCHARD  S    PUBLICATIONS. 


HAWKER  AND  POJUR  ON  SHOOTING, 

INSTRUCTIONS  TO  YOUNG   SPORTSMEN 

IN  ALL  THAT  RELATES  TO  GUNS  AND  SHOOTING. 
BY  LIEUT.  COL.  P.  HA'WEER. 

FROM  THE  ENLARGED  AND  IMPROVED  NINTH  LONDON  EDITION, 

TO  WHICH  IS  ADDED  THE  HUNTING  AND  SHOOTING  OP  NORTH  AME- 
RICA, WITH  DESCRIPTIONS  OF  ANIMALS  AND  BIRDS,  CARE- 
FULLY COLLATED  FROM  AUTHENTIC  SOURCES. 

BY  W.   T.   PORTER,   ESQ., 

EDITOR  OF  THE  NEW  YORK  SPIRIT  OF  THE  TIMES. 

In  one  large  octavo  volume,  rich  extra  cloth,  with  numerous  illustrations. 

"Here  is  a  book,  a  hand-book,  or  rather  a  text-book — one  that  contains  the  whote 
routine  of  the  science.  It  is  the  Primer,  the  Lexicon,  and  the  Homer.  Ever5rthing 
is  here,  from  the  minutest  portion  of  a  gun-lock,  to  a  dead  Buffalo.  The  sportsman 
who  reads  this  book  understandingly,  may  pass  an  examination.  He  will  know  the 
science,  and  may  give  advice  to  others.  Every  sportsman,  and  sportsmen  are  plenti- 
ful, should  own  this  work.  It  should  be  a  "vade  mecum."  He  should  be  examined 
on  its  contents,  and  estimated  by  his  abilities  to  answer.  We  have  not  been  without 
treatises  on  the  art,  but  hitherto  they  have  not  descended  into  all  the  minutiae  of 
equipments  and  qualifications  to  proceed  to  the  completion.  This  work  supplies 
deficiencies,  and  completes  the  sportsman's  library." — U.  S.  Gazette. 

"  No  man  in  the  country  that  we  wot  of  is  so  well  calculated  as  our  friend  of  tlie 
*  Spirit'  for  the  task  he  has  undertaken,  and  the  result  of  his  labours  has  been  that  he 
has  turned  out  a  work  which  should  be  in  the  hands  of  every  man  in  the  land  who  owns 
a  double-barrelled  gun." — N.  O.  Picayune. 

"  A  volume  splendidly  printed  and  bound,  and  embellished  with  numerous  beautiful 
engravings,  which  will  doubtless  be  in  great  demand.  No  sportsman,  indeed,  ought 
to  be  without  it,  while  the  general  reader  will  find  in  its  pages  a  fund  of  curious  and 
useful  information."— Rzc^mond  Whig. 


YOUATT  O^THE    DOG. 

TKZ:  DOG, 

BY    WILLIAM    YOUATT, 

Author  of  *'  The  Horse,"  &:c. 

WITH   NUMEROUS   AND   BEAUTIFUL   ILLUSTRATIONS. 

EDITED    BY    E.  J.  LEWIS,  M.  D.,  &c.,  &c., 

In  one  beautifully  printed  volume,  crown  octavo. 
LIST  OF  PLATES. 
Head  of  Bloodhound —Ancient  Greyhounds— The  Thibet  Dog— The  Dingo,  or  New 
Holland  Dog— The  Danish  or  Dalmatian  Dog— The  Hare  Indian  Dog —The  Grey- 
hound—The Grecian  Greyhound— Blenheims  and  Cockers— The  Water  Spaniel  — 
The  Poodle —The  Alpine  Spaniel  or  Bernardine  Dog— The  Newfoundland  Dog  — 
The  Esquimaux  Dog— The  English  Sheep  Dog— The  Scotch  Sheep  Dog— The  Beagls 
— The  Han-ier— The  Foxhound— Plan  of  Goodwood  Kennel — The  Southern  Hound 
—The  Setter— The  Pointer— The  Bull  Dog— The  Mastiff— The  Temer— Skeleton 
of  the  Dog— Teeth  of  the  Dog  at  seven  different  ages. 

"  Mr.  Youatt's  w<n-k  is  invaluable  to  the  student  of  canine  history ;  it  is  full  of  en- 
tertaining and  instructive  matter  for  the  general  reader.  To  the  sportsman  it  com- 
mends itself  by  the  large  amount  of  useful  information  in  reference  to  his  peculiar 
pursuits  which  it  embcxlies— information  which  he  cannot  find  elsewhere  in  so  con-  - 
venient  and  accessible  a  form,  and  with  so  reliable  an  authority  to  entitle  it  to  his 
consideration.  The  modest  preface  which  Dr.  Lewis  has  made  to  the  American  edi- 
tion of  this  work  scarcely  does  justice  to  the  additional  value  he  has  imparted  to  it ; 
and  the  publishers  are  entitled  to  great  credit  for  the  handsome  manner  in  which 
they  have  got  it  \xp."— North  American. 


LEA  AND   BLANCHARD  S   PUBLICATIONS. 


BOY'S  TREASURY  OF  SPORTS. 

THE  BOY'S  TREASURY  OF  SPORTS,  PASTIMES 
AND  RECREATIONS. 

WITH  FOUR   HUNDRED   ILLUSTRATIONS. 
BY   SAMUEL   WILLIAMS. 

IS  NOW  READY. 

In  one  very  neat  volume,  bound  in  extra  crimson  cloth ;  handsomely  printed 

and  illustrated  with  engravings  in  the  first  style  of  art,  and 

containing  about  six  hundred  and  fifty  articles. 

A  present  for  all  seasons. 

PREFACE. 

This  illustrated  Manual  of  "  Sports,  Pastimes,  and  Recreations,''  has  been  prepared 
with  especial  regard  to  the  Health,  Exercise,  and  Rational  Enjoyment  of  the  young 
readers  to  whom  it  is  addressed. 

Every  variety  of  commendable  Recreation  will  be  found  in  the  following  p^es. 
First,  you  have  the  little  Toys  of  the  Nursery ;  the  Tops  and  Marbles  of  the  Play- 
ground ;  and  the  Balls  of  the  Play-room,  or  the  smooth  Lawn. 

Then,  you  have  a  number  of  Pastimes  that  serve  to  gladden  the  fireside ;  to  light 
up  many  faces  right  joyfully,  and  make  the  parlour  re-echo  with  mirth. 

Next,  come  the  Exercising  Sports  of  the  Field,  the  Green,  and  the  Play-ground ; 
followed  by  the  noble  and  truly  Enghsh  game  of  Cricket. 

Gymnastics  are  next  admitted;  then,  the  delightful  recreation  of  Swimming;  and 
the  healthful  sport  of  Skating. 

Archery,  once  the  pride  of  England,  is  then  detailed  ;  and  very  properly  followed 
by  Instructions  in  the  graceful  accomphshment  of  Fencing,  and  the  manly  and  en- 
livening exercise  ot  Riding. 

Anghng,  the  pastime  of  childhood,  boyhood,  manhood,  and  old  age,  is  next  de- 
scribed ;  and  by  attention  to  the  instructions  here  laid  down,  the  lad  with  a  stick 
and  a  string  may  soon  become  an  expert  Angler. 

Keeping  Animals  is  a  favourite  pursuit  of  boyhood.  Accordingly,  we  have  described 
how  to  rear  the  Rabbit,  the  Squirrel,  the  Dormouse,  the  Guinea  Pig,  the  Pigeon,  and 
the  Silkworm.  A  long  chapter  is  adapted  to  the  rearing  of  Song  Birds  :  the  several 
varieties  of  which,  and  their  respective  cages,  are  next  described.  And  here  we  may 
hint,  that  kindness  to  Animals  invariably  denotes  an  excellent  disposition  ;  for,  to  pet  a 
little  creature  one  hour,  and  to  treat  it  harshly  the  next,  marks  a  capricious  if  not  a  cruel 
temper.    Humanity  is  a  jewel,  which  every  boy  should  be  proud  to  wear  in  his  breast. 

"We  now  approach  the  more  sedate  anmsements — as  Draughts  and  Chess ;  two  of 
the  noblest  exercises  of  the  ingenuity  of  the  human  mind.  Dominoes  and  Ba^telle 
follow.  With  a  knowledge  of  these  four  games,  who  would  pass  a  dull  hour  m  the 
dreariest  day  of  winter ;  or  who  would  sit  idly  by  the  fire  ? 

Amusements  in  Arithmetic,  harmless  Legerdemain,  or  sleight-of-hand,  and  Tricks 
with  Cards,  will  delight  many  a  famdy  circle,  when  the  business  of  the  day  is  over, 
and  the  book  is  laid  aside. 

Although  the  present  volume  is  a  book  of  amusements,  Science  has  not  been  ex- 
cluded from  its  p£^es.  And  why  should  it  be  ?  when  Science  is  as  entertaining  as  a 
fairy  tale.  The  changes  we  read  of  in  little  nursery-books  are  not  more  amusing 
than  the  changes  in  Chemistry,  Optics,  Electricity,  Magnetism,  6iC.  By  understanding 
the.se,  you  may  almost  become  a  little  Magician. 

Toy  Balloons  and  Paper  Fireworks,  (or  Fireworks  voithoui  Fire,)  come  next.  Then 
follow  Instructions  for  Modellmg  in  Card-Board;  so  that  you  may  build  for  yourself 
a  palace  or  a  carriage,  and,  in  short,  make  for  yourself  a  little  paper  world. 

Puzzles  and  Paradoxes,  Enigmas  and  Riddles,  and  Talking  with  the  Fingers,  next 
make  up  plenty  of  exercise  for  "  Guess,"  and  "  Guess  again."  And  as  you  have  the 
"  Keys"  in  your  own  hand,  you  may  keep  your  friends  in  suspense,  and  make  yourself 
as  mysterious  as  the  Sphynx. 

A  chanter  of  Miscellanies— useful  and  amusing  secrets— winds  up  the  volume. 

The  "Treasury"  contains  upwards  of  four  hundred  Engravings  ;  so  that  it  is  not  only 
a  collection  of  "  secrets  worth  knowing,"  but  it  is  a  book  of  pictures,  as  full  of  prints 
as  a  Christmas  pudding  is  of  plums. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  mention  that  the  "  Treasury"  holds  many  new  games  that 
have  never  before  been  printed  in  a  book  of  this  kind.  The  old  games  have  been 
described  afresh.    Thus  it  is,  altogether,  a  new  book. 

And  now  we  take  leave,  wishing  you  many  hours,  and  days,  and  weeks  of  enjoy- 
ment over  these  pages ;  and  we  hope  that  you  may  be  as  happy  as  this  book  is  brimful 
of  amusement. 


LEA   AND   BLANCHARd's   PUBLICATIONS. 

YOUATT  AND  SKINNER'S 
STANDARD   WORJCJN   THE   HORSE. 

THE  HORSE, 
BY  WILLIAM   YOUATT. 

ANEW  EDITION,  WITH  NUMEROUS  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

TOGETHER  WITH  A 

GJSXTERiLI.  HISTORV  OF   THE   HORSE; 

A   DISSERTATION   ON 

THE    AIVIERICAN    TROTTING    HORSE, 

HOW  TRAINED  AND  JOCKEYED. 
AN  ACCOUNT  OF  HIS  REMARKABLE  PERFORMANCES; 

AND 

AN  ESSAY  ON  THE  ASS  AND  THE  MULE, 
BY  J.  S.  SKINNER, 

Assistant  Post-Master-General,  and  Editor  of  the  Turf  Reg:ister. 
This  edition  of  Youatt's  well-knowTi  and  standard  work  on  the  Manas;ement,  Dis- 
eases, and  Treatment  of  the  Horse,  has  already  obtained  such  a  wide  circulation 
throughout  the  country,  that  the  Publishers  need  say  nothine:  to  attract  to  it  the  atten- 
tion and  confidence  of  all  who  keep  Horses,  or  are  interested  in  their  improvement. 

CLATERrOFYTOIfTT^^^ 

.EVERY   MAN  HIS   OWN   CATTLE   DOCTORl 

CXDNTAINING  THE  CAUSES,  SYMPTOMS,  AND  TREATMENT   OF  ALL  DIS- 
EASES INCIDENT  TO  OXEN,  SHEEP,  AND  SWINE; 
AND    A   SKETCH   OF   THE 
ANATOIVEY  AND  PHYSIOLOGY  OF  NEAT  CATTLE. 
BY  FRANCIS  CLATER. 

EDITED,  REVISED,  AND  ALMOST  RE-WRITTEN,  BY 

WILLIAM  YOUATT,  AUTHOR  OF  "THE  HORSE." 

WITH   NUMEROUS   ADDITIONS, 

EMBRACING  AN  ESSAY  ON  THE  USE  OF  OXEN  AND  THE  IMPROVEMENT 

IN  THE  BREED  OF  SHEEP, 

BY   J.  S.  SKINXER. 

WITH  NUMEROUS  CUTS  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS. 
In  one  12mo.  volume,  cloth. 
"  As  its  title  would  import,  it  is  a  most  valuable  work,  and  should  be  in  the  hands  of 
every  American  farmer;  and  we  feel  proud  in  savin?,  that  the  value  of  the  work  has 
been  greatly  enhanced  by  the  contributions  of  Mr.  Skinner.  Clater  and  Youatt  are 
names  treasured  by  the  farming  communities  of  Europe  as  household-gods ;  nor  does 
that  of  Skinner  deserve  to  be  less  esteemed  in  America." — American  Farmer. 

cTatFr^TaWTr^ 

EVERY   MAN   HIS   OWN   FARRIER; 

CXDNTAINING  THE  CAUSES,  SYMPTOMS,  AND  MOST  APPROVED  METHODS 

OF  CURE  OF  THE   DISEASES  OF  HORSES. 

BY  FRANCIS   CLATER, 

Author  of  "Every  Man  his  own  Cattle  Doctor," 

AND   HIS  SON,  JOHN   CLATER. 

FIRST  AMERICAN  FROM  THE  TWENTY-EIGHTH  LONDON  EDITION. 

WITH     NOTES     AND     ADDITIONS, 

B  Y  J.  S.  SKINNER. 

In  one  12mo.  volume,  cloth. 


LEA   AND   BLANCHARD's   PUBLICATIONS. 


POPULAR  SCIENCE. 


PHILOSOPHY  IN  SPORT,  MADE  SCIENCE 
IN  EARNEST; 

BEING  AN   ATTEMPT  TO   ILLUSTRATE   THE  FIRST   PRINCI- 
PLES OF  NATURAL  PHILOSOPHY,  BY  THE  AID 
OF  THE   POPULAR  TOYS   AND 
SPORTS  OF  YOUTH. 

FROM  THE  SIXTH  A.ND  GREATLY  IMPROVED  LONDON  EDITION. 

In  one  very  neat  royal  18mo.  volume,  with  nearly  one  hundred  illustrations 
on  wood.    Fine  extra  crimson  cloth. 

"  Messrs.  Lea  &  Blanchard  have  issued,  in  a  beautiful  manner,  a  handsome  book, 
called  '  Philosophy  in  Sport,  made  Science  in  Earnest.'  This  is  an  admirable  attempt 
to  illustrate  the  first  principles  of  Natural  Philosophy,  by  the  aid  of  the  popular  toys 
and  sports  of  youth.  Useful  information  is  conveyed  in  an  easy,  graceful,  yet  dignified 
manner,  and  rendered  easy  to  the  simplest  understanding.  The  book  is  an  admirable 
one,  and  must  meet  with  universal  favour."— iVT.  Y.  Evening  Mirror. 


ENDLESS    AMUSEMENT. 

JUST  ISSUED. 


ENDLESS  AMUSEMENT, 

A   COLLECTION  OF 

NEARLY  FOUR  HUNDRED  ENTERTAINING  EXPERIMENTS  IN 
VARIOUS  BRANCHES  OF  SCIENCE, 

INCLUDING 

ACOUS'nCS,  ARITHMETIC,  CHEMISTRY,  ELECTRICITY,  HYDRAULICS,  HY- 
DROSTATICS, MAGNETISM,  MECHANICS,  OPTICS,  WONDERS  OF 
tHE  AIR  PUMP,  ALL  THE  POPULAR  TRICKS  AND 
CHANGES  OF  THE  CARDS,  &c.,  See. 

TO   WHICH  IS   ADDED, 

A  OOIVIPLETE  SYSTEIVI  OF  PYROTECHNY, 

OR  THE  ART  OF  MAKING  FIRE-WORKS; 

THE  WHOLE  SO   CLEARLY   EXPLAINED   AS   TO   BE  WITHIN  REACH   OF 

THE   MOST   LIMITED    CAPACITY. 

WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS. 

FROM   THE   SEVENTH  LONDON  EDITION. 

In  one  neat  royal  18mo.  volume,  fine  extra  crimson  cloth. 

"  It  contains  everything  that  can  please  the 
ment,'  and  the  puf "  " 
gathering,  or  what  i 

scientific  or  to  the  family  circle,  and  to  each  it  will  give  instruction  and  pleasun 
is  filled  with  illustrations.    We  shall  give  extracts  from  it  occasionally."— Za/jr'i 
Book. 


LEA  AND   BLANCH ARDS   PUBLICATIONS. 


POPULAR  SCIENCE. 


ANSTED'S  ANCIENT  WORLD. 

JUST  ISSUED. 


THE  ANCIENT  WORLD,  OR,  PICTURESQUE  SKETCHES 
OF  CREATION, 

BY  D.  T.  ANSTED,  M.A.,  F.R.S,  F.G.S.,  &c. 

PROFESSOR   OF  GEOLOGY,  IN   KING'S   COLLEGE,    LONDON. 

In  one  very  neat  volume,  fine  extra  cloth,  with  about  One  Hundred 
and  Fifty  Illustrations. 

The  object  of  this  work  is  to  present  to  the  general  reader  the  chief  results  of  Geo- 
logical investigation  in  a  simple  and  comprehensive  manner.  The  author  has  avoided 
all  minute  details  of  geological  formations  and  particular  observations,  and  has  en- 
deavoured as  far  as  possible  to  present  striking  views  of  the  wonderful  results  of  the 
science,  divested  of  its  mere  technicalities.  The  work  is  printed  in  a  handsome  man- 
ner, with  numerous  illustrations,  and  forms  a  neat  volume  for  the  centre  table. 

"  As  a  resume  of  what  is  at  present  known  on  the  subject  of  fossil  remains,  it  is  worthy 
to  be  a  companion  to  the  author's  '  Descriptive  Geology,'  a  work  of  which  we  have 
spoken  in  the  highest  terms.  This  volume  is  illustrated  in  the  style  of  all  Van  Voorst's 
Natural  History  works,  and  that  is  sufficient  recommendation.  Our  extracts  will 
convey  a  notion  of  the  style  of  the  work,  which  is,  like  all  that  Professor  Ansted  has 
written,  clear  and  pointed. — Athenceum. 

CHEMISTRY  OF  THE  FOUR  SEASONS, 

SPRING,  SUMMER,  AUTUMN,  AND  WINTER. 

AN    ESSAY,  PRINCIPALLY  CONCERNING  NATURAL  PHENOMENA,  ADMIT- 
TING OF  INTERPRETATION  BY  CHEMICAL  SCIENCE.  AND 
ILLUSTRATING  PASSAGES  OF  SCRIPPURE. 

BIT  TiaOTtLAS  GRIFFITHS, 

Professor  of  Chemistry  in  the  Medical  College  of  St.  Bartholomew's  Hospital,  &c 

In  one  large  royal  12mo.  volume,  with  many  Wood-Cuts,  extra  cloth. 
♦'  Chemistry  is  assuredly  one  of  the  most  useful  and  interesting  of  the  natural  sci- 
ences. Chemical  changes  meet  us  at  every  step,  and  during  every  season,  the  winds 
and  the  rain,  the  heat  and  the  frosts,  each  have  their  peculiar  and  apprepriate  phe- 
nomena. And  those  who  have  hitherto  remained  insensible  to  these  changes  and 
unmoved  amid  such  remarkable,  and  often  startling  results,  will  lose  their  apathy 
■pon  reading  the  Chemistry  of  the  'Four  Seasons,'  and  be  prepared  to  enjoy  the 
highest  intellectual  pleasures.  Conceived  in  a  happy  spirit,  and  written  with  taste 
and  elegance,  the  essay  of  Mr.  Griffiths  cannot  fail  to  receive  the  admiration  of  culti- 
vated minds ;  and  those  who  have  looked  less  carefully  into  nature's  beauties,  will 
find  themselves  led  on  step  by  step,  until  they  realize  a  new  intellectual  being.  Such 
works,  we  believe,  exert  a  happy  influence  over  society,  and  hence  we  hope  that  the 
present  one  may  be  extensively  read."— TAc  Western  Lancet. 


LEA   AND   BLANCHARD  S   PUBLICATIONS. 


POPULAR  SCIENCE. 

KIRBY  AND  SPENCE'S  ENTOMOLOGY,  FOR  POPULAR  USE. 

AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  ENTOMOLOGY, 

OR,  ELEMENTS  OF  THE    NATURAL  HI^iTORV  OF  INSECTS;   COMPRISING  AN   AC- 
COUNT OF  NOXIOUS  ANU  USEFUL  INSECTS,  OF  1  HEIR  METAMORPHOSES, 
FOOD,  STRATAGEMS,  HABITATIONS,   SOCIETIES,  MOTIONS, 
NOISES,  HYBERNATION,  INSTINCT,  &c,  &c. 

Witli   Plates,   Plain   or   Colored. 

BY  W.  KIRBY,  M.A.,  F.R.S.,  AND  W.  SPENOE,  ESQ.,  F.R.S. 

FROM  THE  SIXTH  LONDON  EDITION,  WHICH  WAS  CORRECTED  AND  MUCH  ENLARGED. 

In  one  large  octavo  volume,  extra  cloth. 

"  We  have  been  greatly  interested  in  running  over  tlie  pages  of  this  treatise.  There 
is  scarcely,  in  the  wide  range  of  natural  science,  a  more  interesting  or  instructive 
study  than  that  of  insects,  or  one  that  is  calculated  to  excite  more  curiosity  or  wonder. 

"  I'he  popular  form  of  letters  is  adopted  by  the  authors  m  imparting  a  knowledge  of 
the  subject,  which  renders  the  work  peculiarlv  titted  for  our  district  school  libraries, 
which  are  open  to  all  ages  and  classes." — Hunts  Merchants  Magazine. 

JOHNSON  AnTlW^  and 

FLOWER_GARDENING. 

£L  DICTIOXrimir  of  1«C0D£RXT  GiLRDEITIITG, 

BY  GEORGE  WILLIAM  JOHNSON,   ESa. 

Author  of  the  "  Principles  of  Practical  Gardening,"  *'  The  Gardener's  Almanac,"  <Jic. 

WITH    ONE    HUNDRED   AND   EIGHTY    WOOD-CUTS. 
SDITED,  WITH  NUMEROUS  ADDITIONS,  BY  DAVID  LANDRETH,  OF  PHILADELPHIA. 
In  one  large  royal  duodprimo  volume,  extra  cloth,  of  nearly  Six  Hundred 
and  Fifty  double  columned  Pages. 
This  edition  has  been  greatly  altered  from  the  original.    Many  articles  of  little  inte- 
rest to  Americans  have'  been  curtailed  or  wholly  omitted,  and  much  new  matter, 
with  numerous  illustrations,  added,  especially  with  respect  to  the  varieties  of  fruit 
which  experience  has  shown  to  be  peculiarlv  adapted  to  our  climate.    Still,  the  editor 
admits  that  he  has  only  followed  in  the  path  so  admirably  marked  out  by  Mr.  John- 
son, to  whom  the  chief  merit  of  the  work  l)elongs.     It  has  been  an  object  with  the 
editor  and  publishers  to  increase  its  popular  character,  thereby  adapting  it  to  the 
larger  class  of  horticultural  readers  in  this  country,  and  they  trust  it  will  prove  what 
they  have  desired  it  to  be,  an  Encyclopedia  of  Gardening,  if  not  of  Rural  Affairs,  so 
condensed  and  at  such  a  price  as  to  be  within  reach  of  nearly  all  whom  those  subjects 
interest. 

GRAHAME'S  COLONIAL  HISTORY. 

HISTORY  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES. 

FROM  THE   PLANTATION   OF  THE   BRITISH   COLONIES  TILL 
THEIR  ASSUMPTION  OF  INDEPENDENCE. 

SECOND   AMERICAN   EDITION,  ENLARGED  AND  AMENDED, 
WITH  A  MEMOIR  BY  PRESIDENT  QUINOY. 

IN  TWO  LARGE  OCTAVO  VOLUMES,  EXTRA  CLOTH,  WITH  A  PORTRAIT. 

This  work  having  assumed  the  position  of  a  standard  history  of  this  country,  the 
publishers  have  been  induced  to  issue  an  edition  in  smaller  size  and  at  a  less  cost,  that 
Its  circulation  may  be  commensurate  with  its  merits.  It  is  now  considered  as  the 
most  impartial  and  trustworthy  history  that  has  yet  appeared. 

A  few  copies  of  the  edition  m  four  volumes,  on  extra  fine  thick  paper,  price  eight 
dollars,  may  still  be  had  by  gentlemen  desirous  of  procuring  a  beautiful  work  for 
their  Ubnuies. 


LEA   AND   BLANCHARD  S   PUBLICATIONS. 


SCHOOL  BOOKS. 


ARNOTT'S  PHYSICS. 


ELEMENTS  OF  PHYSICS;  OR,  NATURAL  PHILOSOPHY, 

GENERAL  AND  MEDICAL. 

WRITTEN  FOR  UNIVERSAL  USE,  IN  PLAIN,  OR  NON-TECHNICAL  LANGUAGE. 

BTNIEIiL  ARNOTTjlVI.D. 

A   NEW    EDITION,   BY   ISAAC    HAYS,    M.D. 

Complete  in  one  octavo  volume,  with  nearly  tviro  hundred  wood-cuts. 

This  standard  work  has  been  long  and  favourably  known  as  one  of  the  best  popular 
expositions  of  the  interesting  science  it  treats  of.  It  is  extensively  used  in  many  of  the 
first  seminaries. 


ELEMENTARY  CHEMISTRY,  THEORETICAL 
AND  PRACTICAL, 

BY   GEORGE   FO WNES,  Ph.  D., 

Chemical  Lecturer  in  the  Middlesex  Hospital  Medical  School,  &c.,  <5cc. 
WITH    NUMEROUS    ILLUSTRATIONS. 

EDITED,  WITH    ADDITIONS, 

BY   ROBERT  BRIDGES,  M.D., 

Professor  of  General  and  Pharmaceutical  Chemistry  in  the  Philadelphia  College  of 

Pharmacy,  <kc.,  &c. 

SECOND    AMERICAN    EDITION. 

In  one  large  duodecimo  volume,  sheep,  or  extra  cloth,  with  nearly 

two  hundred  wood-cuts. 

The  characterof  this  work  is  such  as  to  recommend  it  to  all  colleges  and  academies 
in  want  of  a  text-book.  It  is  fully  brought  up  to  the  day,  containing  all  the  late  views 
and  discoveries  that  have  so  entirely  changed  the  face  of  the  science,  and  it  is  com- 
pletely illustrated  with  very  numerous  wood  engravings,  explanatory  of  all  the  diffe- 
rent processes  and  forms  of  apparatus.  Though  strictly  scientific,  it  is  written  with 
great  clearness  and  simplicity  of  style,  rendering  it  easy  to  be  comprehended  by  those 
who  are  commencing  the  study. 

It  may  be  had  well  bound  in  leather,  or  neatly  done  up  in  strong  cloth.  Its  low 
price  places  it  within  the  reach  of  all. 

Extract  of  a  letter  from  Professor  Mllingion,  of  William  and  Mary  College,  Va. 
"  I  have  perused  the  book  with  much  pleasure,  and  find  it  a  most  admirable  work  ; 
and,  to  my  mind,  such  a  one  as  is  just  now  much  needed  in  schools  and  colleges.  ♦  •  * 
All  the  books  I  have  met  with  on  chemistrj'  are  either  too  puerile  or  too  erudite,  and 
I  confess  Dr.  Fownes'  book  seems  to  be  the  happiest  medium  I  have  seen,  and  admi- 
rably suited  to  fill  up  the  hiatus." 

Though  this  work  has  been  so  recently  published,  it  has  already  been  adopted  as  a 
text-book  by  a  large  number  of  the  higher  schools  and  colleges  throughout  the  country, 
and  many  of  the  Medical  Institutions.  As  a  work  for  the  upper  classes  in  academies 
and  the  junior  students  of  colleges,  there  has  been  but  one  opinion  expressed  concera- 
ing  it,  and  it  may  now  be  considered  as  The  Text-Book  for  the  Chemical  Student. 


LEA   AND    BLANCHARD  S   PCBLICATIONS. 


SCHOOL  BOOKS. 


BOLMAR'S  FRENCH  SERIES. 

New  editions  of  the  following  works,  by  A.  Bolm\r,  forming,  in  con- 
nection with  "Bolmar's  Levizac,"  a  complete  series  for  the  acquisition  of 
the  French  language  :— 

A  SKIiECTION  OF  ONE  HUNDRED  PERRIN'S 
FABIiES, 

ACCOMPANIED  BY  A  KEY, 

Containing  the  text,  a  literal  and  free  translation,  arranged  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
point  out  the  difference  between  the  French  and  EugUsh  idiom,  &c.,  m  1  vol.,  12mo. 

A  COIiliBCTION  OP  COIiliOdUIAIi  PHRASES, 

ON  EVERY  TOPIC  NECESSARY  TO  MAINTAIN  CONVERSATION. 

Arranged  under  different  heads,  with  numerous  remarks  on  the  peculiar  pronuncia- 
tion and  uses  of  various  words  ;  the  whole  so  disposed  as  considerably  to  facilitate 
the  acquisition  of  a  correct  pronunciation  of  the  French,  in  1  vol.,  18mo. 

LES  A  VENTURES  DE  TEIiEMAQ^UE   PAR  FENEI<ON, 

In  1  vol.,  12mo..  accompanied  by  a  Key  to  the  tirst  eight  books,  in  1  vol ,  12mp.,  con- 
taining, hke  the  Fables,  the  text,  a  literal  and  free  translation,  intended  as  a  sequel 
to  the  Fables.    Either  volume  sold  separately. 

ALL  THE  FRENCH  VERBS, 

Both  regular  and  irregular,  in  a  small  volume. 


BUTLER'S  ANCIENT  ATLAS. 


jAJN'  ATImAS  of  JMXCIUNT  GEOGBAFHlTy 

BY  SAMUEL  BUTLER,  B.  D., 

Late  Lord  Bishop  of  Litchfield. 

CONTAINING  TWENTY-ONE   COLOURED   MAPS,   AND   A  COMPLETE   ACCENTUATED 
INDEX. 

In  one  octavo  volume,  half-bound. 


BUTLER'S  ANCIENT  GEOGRAPHY. 

aXSOGRil.PIIIJ9L  CI-ASSZOA, 

OR.  THE  APPLICATION  OF  ANCIENT  GEOGRAPHY  TO  THE 

CLASSICS, 

BY  SAMUEL  BUTLER,   D.  D.,  F.R.S. 

REVISED  BY  HIS  SON. 

FIFTH  AMERICAN,  FROM  THE  LAST  LONDON   EDITION. 

WITH  QUESTIONS  ON  THE    MAPS,  BY   JOHN  FROST. 
In  one  daodecimo  volume,  half-bound,  to  match  the  Athu. 


LEA   AND   BLANCHARd's   PUBLICATIONS. 

SCHOOL  BOOKS. 


WHITE'S  UNIVERSAL  HISTORY. 


LATELY    PUBLISHED, 

ZSZiEMSN'TS  OF  VXriVSRSAZ.  HISTORIT, 

ON  A  NEW  AND  SYSTEMATIC  PLAN; 

FROM  THE  EARLIEST  TIMES  TO  THE  TREAT^  OF  VIENNA;  TO  WHICH 

IS  ADDED,  A  SUMMARY  OF  THE  LEADING  EVENTS  SINCE 

THAT   PERIOD,  FOK    THE   USE   OF   SCHOOLS 

AND  PRIVATE  STUDENTS. 

BY  H.  WHITE,  B.A., 

TRINITY   COLLEGE,    CAMBRIDGE. 

WITH   ADDITIONS   AND   QUESTIONS, 
BY  JOHN  S.   HART,   A.M., 

Frincipal  of  the  Philadelphia  High  School,  and  Professor  of  Moral  and  Mental  Science,  &c.,  &c 
In  one  volume,  large  duodecimo,  neatly  bound  with  Maroon  Backs. 

This  work  is  arranged  on  a  new  plan,  which  is  believed  to  combine  the 
advantages  of  those  formerly  in  use.  It  is  divided  into  three  parts,  corre- 
sponding with  Ancient,  Middle,  and  Modern  History ;  which  parts  are  again 
subdivided  into  centuries,  so  that  the  various  events  are  presented  in  the 
order  of  time,  while  it  is  so  arranged  that  the  annals  of  each  country  can 
be  read  consecutively,  thus  combining  the  advantages  of  both  the  plans 
hitherto  pursued  in  works  of  this  kind.  To  guide  the  researches  of  the  stu- 
dent, there  will  be  found  numerous  synoptical  tables,  with  remarks  and 
sketches  of  literature,  antiquities,  and  manners,  at  the  great  chronological 
epochs. 

The  additions  of  the  American  editor  have  been  principally  confined  to 
the  chapters  on  the  history  of  this  country.  The  series  of  questions  by  him 
will  be  found  of  use  to  those  who  prefer  that  system  of  instruction.  For 
those  who  do  not,  the  publishers  have  had  an  edition  prepared  without  the 
questions. 

This  work  has  already  passed  through  several  editions,  and  has  been 
introduced  into  many  of  the  higher  Schools  and  Academies  throughout  the 
country.  From  among  numerous  recommendations  which  they  have  re- 
ceived, the  publishers  annex  the  following  from  the  Deputy  Superintendent 
of  Common  Schools  for  New  York: 

Secretary's  Office,  )  State  of  New  York, 

Department  of  Common  Schools.       )  Albany,  Oct.  Uth,  1845. 

Messrs.  Lea  <f  Blanchard : 

Gentlemen :—i  have  examined  the  copy  of  "White's  Universal  History,"  which  you 
were  so  obhging  as  to  send  me,  and  cheerfully  and  fully  concur  in  the  commendations 
of  its  value,  as  a  comprehensive  and  enlightened  survey  of  the  Ancient  and  Modem 
World,  which  many  of  the  most  competent  judges  have,  as  I  perceive,  already  bestowed 
upon  it.  It  appears  to  me  to  be  admirably  adapted  to  the  purposes  of  our  public 
schools ;  and  I  unhesitatingly  approve  of  its  introduction  into  those  seminaries  of  ele- 
mentaiy  instruction.  Very  respectfully,  your  obedient  servant, 

SAMUEL  S.  RANDALL, 
Deputy  Superintendent  Common  Schools, 


LEA  AND   BLANCHARD  S   PUBLICATIONS. 


SCHOOL  BOOKS. 


BIRD'S  NATURAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

NEARLY  READY. 


niMTfsacEnrrs  of  xtatitbaii  PHiiiOSOPHir, 

BEIXa    AN    EXPERIMENTAL     INTRODUCTION    TO    THE 

PHYSICAL    SCIENCES. 

ILLUSTRATED  WITH  OVER  THREE  HUNDRED  WOOD-CUTS. 

BY   GOLDING   BIRD,   M.D., 

Assistant  Physician  to  Guy's  Hospital. 

FROM  THE  THIRD  LONDON  EDITION. 

In  one  neat  volume. 

"By  the  appearance  of  Dr.  Bird's  work,  the  student  has  now  all  that  he  can  desire 
in  one  neat,  concise,  and  well-di>^ested  volume.  The  elements  of  natural  philosophy 
are  explained  in  very  simple  language,  and  illustrated  by  numerous  wood-cuts." — 
Medical  Gazette. 

"A  volume  of  useful  and  beautiful  instruction  for  the  young."— Literary  Gazette. 

"  We  should  like  to  know  that  Dr.  Bird's  book  was  associated  with  every  boys'  and 
girls'  school  throughout  the  kingdom."— iVfctZ«-a^  Gazette. 

"  This  work  marks  an  advance  which  has  long  been  wanting  in  our  system  of  in- 
struction. Mr.  Bird  has  succeeded  in  producing  an  elementary  work  of  great  merit. 
—Athenontm. 


HERSCHELL'S  ASTRONOMY. 


A  TRXSikTISE  OZ7  ASTROXTOMT, 

BY  SIR  JOHN  F.  W.  HERSCHELL,  F.  R.  S.,  &c. 

WITH  NUMEROUS  PLATES  AND  WOOD-CUTS. 

A  NEW  EDITION,  WITH  A  PREFACE  AND  A  SERIES  OF  QUESTIONS, 

BY  S.  O.  WALKER. 

In  one  volume,  12mo. 


BREWSTER'S  OPTICS. 

SZ.XSMEN'TS  OF  OPTICS, 

BY  SIR  DAVID  BREWSTER. 

WITH  NOTES   AND   ADDITIONS,   BY  A.  D.  BACHE,    LL.D. 

Superintendent  of  the  Coast  Survey,  &;c. 

In  one  volume,  12mo.,  with  numerous  wood-cuts. 


XEA   AND    BLANCHARD'S   PUBLICATIONS. 

MULLER'S  PHYSICS  AND  METEOROLOGY. 

NEARLY    READY. 


PRINCIPLES  OF  PHYSICS   AND  METEOROLOGY, 

BY  J.  MULLER, 

Professor  of  Physics  at  the  University  of  Freiburg'. 

ILLUSTRATKD  WITH  NEARLY  FIVK  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY"  KNGKAVINGS  ON  WOOD, 

AND  TWO  COLORED  PLATES. 

Jn  one  octavo  volume. 
TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE. 

In  laying  the  following:  pas:es  before  the  public,  it  seems  necessary  to  state  that  the 
design  of  them  is  to  render  more  easily  accessible  a  greater  portion  of  the  general 
principles  of  Physics  and  Meteorology  than  is  usually  to  be  obtained,  without  the 
sacrifice  of  a  greater  amount  of  time  and  labour  than  "niost  persons  can  afford,  or  are 
wiUing  to  make.  The  subjects  of  which  this  volume  treats  are  very  numerous — more 
numerous,  in  fact,  than  at  first  sight  it  would  seem  possible  to  embrace  in  so  small  a 
compass.  The  Author  has,  however,  by  a  system  of  the  most  judicious  selection  and 
Condensation,  been  enabled  to  introduce  all  the  most  important  facts  and  theories 
relating  to  Statics,  Hydrostatics,  Dynamics,  Hydrodynamics,  Pneumatics,  the  Laws 
df  the  Motions  of  Waves  in  general.  Sound,  the  Theory  of  Musical  Notes,  the  Voice 
and  Hearing,  Geometrical  and  Physical  Opjtics,  Maametism,  Electricity  and  Galvanism, 
in  all  their  subdivisions,  Heat  and  Meteorology,  within  the  space  of  an  ordinary  middle- 
sized  volume.  Of  the  manner  in  which  the  translator  has  executed  his  task,  it  be- 
hoves him  to  say  nothing ;  he  has  attempted  nothing  more  than  a  plain,  and  nearly 
literal  version  of  the  originaL  He  cannot,  however,  conclude  this  brief  introductory 
note  without  directing  the  attention  of  his  Readers  to  the  splendid  manner  in  which 
the  Publishers  have  illustrated  this  volume. 
Auffust,  1&17. 

"  The  Physics  of  Muller  is  a  work,  superb,  complete,  unique :  the  greatest  want 
known  to  English  Science  could  not  have  been  better  supphed.  The  work  is  of  sur- 
passing interest.  The  value  of  this  contribution  to  the  scientific  records  of  tlus 
country  may  be  duly  estimated  by  the  fact,  that  the  cost  of  the  original  dravrings  and 
engravings  alone  has  exceeded  the  sum  of  2000/." — Lancet.  March,  1847. 

'•The  plan  adopted  by  Muller  is  simple  ;  it  reminds  us  of  the  excellent  and  popular 
treatise  published  many  years  since  by  Dr.  Arnott,  but  it  takes  a  much  wider  range 
of  subjects..  Like  it,  all  the  necessary  explanations  are  given  in  clear  and  concise 
language,  without  more  than  an  occasional  reference  to  mathematics;  and  the  trea- 
tise is  most  abundantly  illustrated  with  well-ex«cuted  wood  engravings. 

"The  author  has  actually  contrived  to  comprise  in  about  five  hundred  pages,  in- 
cluding the  space  occupied  by  illustrations,  Mechanics,  the  Laws  of  Motion.  Acoustics, 
Light,  Magnetism,  Electricity,  Galvanism,  Electro-Magnetism,  Heat,  and  Meteorology, 

"'  Medical  practitioners  and  students,  even  if  they  have  the  means  to  procure,  have 
certainly  not  the  time  to  study  an  elaborate  treatise  in  every  branch  of  science  ;  and 
the  question  therefore  is,  simply,  whetlier  they  are  to  remain  wholly  ignorant  of  such 
subjects,  or  to  make  a  profitable  use  of  the  labours  of  those  who  have  the  happy  ait 
of  saying  or  suggesting  much  in  a  small  space. 

'♦  From  our  examination  of  this  volume,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  recommend  it  to  our 
readers  as  a  useful  book  on  a  most  interesting  branch  of  science.  We  may  remark, 
that  the  translation  is  so  well  executed,  ♦^hal  we  think  the  translator  is  doing  himself 
injustice  by  concealing  his  name."— Z/)?«iort  Medical  Guzette,  August,  1847. 

nslAHArslTfMTsT   

NEARLY  READY. 


XSZaSMZSITTS   OF    CHSMISTRIT. 

INCLUDING 
THE  APPLICATIONS  OF  THE  SCIENCE  IN  THE  ARTS. 

BY  T.  GRAHAM,  F.  R.  S.,  &c. 

SECOND   AMERICAN,   FROM   THE   SECOND    LONDON   EDITION. 

EDITED  AND   REVISED  BY   ROBERT  BR  I DGES,  M.  D., 

Professor  of  Chemistry  in  the  Franklin  Medical  College,  Philadelphia. 
In  one  large  octavo  volume,  with  numerous  wood-engravings. 
This  edition  will  be  found  enlarged  and  improved,  so  as  to  be  fully  brought 
up  to  a  level  with  the  science  of  the  day. 


LEA   AND    BLANCHARD  S   PUBLICATIONS. 


SCHOOL  BOOKS. 
SCHMITZAND  ZUMPT'S  CLASSICAL  SERIES. 

VOIiUME  I. 

C.  JULII  C^SARIS, 

COMMENTARII   DE   BELLO   GALLICO. 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION,  NOTES,  AND  A  GEOGRAPHICAL  INDEX  IN  ENGUSH. 
ALSO,  A  MAP  OF  GAUL,  AND  ILLUSTRATIVE  ENGRAVINGS. 
In  one  handsome  18mo.  volume,  extra  cloth. 
Hiis  Series  has  been  placed  under  the  editorial  management  of  two  emi- 
nent scholars  and  practical  teachers,  Dr.  Schmitz,  Rector  of  the  High  School, 
Edinburgh,  and  Dr.  Zdmpt,  Professor  in  the  University  of  Berlin,  and  will 
combine  the  following  advantages : — 

1.  A  gradually  ascending  series  of  School  Books  on  a  uniform  plan,  so  as  to  con- 
stitute within  a  definite  number,  a  complete  Latin  Curriculum. 

2.  Certain  arrang^ements  in  the  rudimentary  volumes,  which  will  insure  a  fair 
amount  of  knowledge  in  Roman  hterature  to  those  who  are  not  designed  for  profes- 
sional life,  and  who  therefore  will  not  require  to  extend  their  studies  to  the  advanced 
portion  of  the  series. 

3.  The  text  of  each  author  will  be  such  as  has  been  constituted  by  the  most  recent 
collations  of  manuscripts,  and  will  be  prefaced  by  biographical  and'  critical  sketches 
in  EngUsh,  that  pupils  may  be  made  aware  of  the  character  and  peculiarities  of  the 
work  they  are  about  to  study. 

4.  To  remove  difficulties,  and  sustain  an  interest  in  the  text,  explanatory  notes  in 
English  wni  be  placed  at  the  foot  of  each  page,  and  such  comparisons  drawn  as  may 
serve  to  unite  the  history  of  the  past  with  the  realities  of  modem  times. 

5.  The  works,  generally,  will  be  embellished  with  maps  and  illustrative  engravings, 
—accompaniments  which  will  greatly  assist  the  student's  comprehension  of  the  na- 
ture of  the  countries  and  leading  circumstances  described. 

6.  The  respective  volumes  will  be  issued  at  a  price  considerably  less  than  that  usu- 
ally charged  ;  and  as  the  texts  are  from  the  most  eminent  sources,  and  the  whole  se- 
ries constructed  upon  a  determinate  plan,  the  practice  of  issuing  new  and  altered 
editions,  which  is  complained  of  alike  by  teachers  and  pupils,  will  be  altogether 
avoided. 

From  among  the  testimonials  which  the  publishers  have  received,  they 
append  the  following,  to  show  that  the  design  of  the  series  has  been  fuUy 
and  successfully  carried  out : — 

Central  High  School,  PMla.,  June  29, 1847. 
G^entlemen: — 

I  have  been  much  pleased  with  your  edition  of  Cspsar's  Gallic  Wars,  being  part  of 
Schmitz  and  Zumpt's  classical  series  for  schools.  The  work  seems  happily  adapted 
to  the  wants  of  learners.  The  notes  contain  much  valuable  information,  concisely 
and  accurately  expressed  and  on  the  point.s  that  really  require  elucidation,  while  at 
the  same  time  the  book  is  not  rendered  tiresome  and  expensive  by  a  tise'ess  array  of 
mere  learning.  The  text  is  one  in  high  repute,  and  your  reprint  of  it  is  pleasing  to 
the  eye.  I  take  great  pleasure  in  commending  the  publication  to  the  attention  of 
teachers.  It  will,  I  am  persuaded,  copamend  itself  to  all  who  ?ive  it  a  fair  examination. 
Very  Respectfully,  Your  Obt.  Servt., 

JOHN  S.  HART, 
To  Messrs.  Lea  6c  Blanchard.  Principal  Phila.  High  School. 


VOIiUME    SKCOND, 

P.  VIRGILII  MARONIS  CARMINA. 

NEARLY  READY. 


t^ 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subjea  to  immediate  recall. 

23iM'aufD 

^;,r...    n,,..  Ic 

C-.v,..i.n.. 

Kar^-  ^.,k<. 

RrKl..      B-,,k«-. 

C....,:.,V,: 

T  T»  01  A      crv/w^  A   »cri 

General  Library 

'ttj^B 


